Things My Boyfriend and I Have Argued About
by mr. eames
Summary: Poor Kyle. He suffers from minimum wage, the French mafia, hiding dead bodies, slightly insane friends, his mother and his boyfriend being of the opinion that everything in the world is his fault - always. Stan/Kyle, threeshot. For eksley05.
1. Part I

**Things My Boyfriend and I Have Argued About**

**A/N**: For the more British-savvy among you (or the actual British...but mostly to my fellow anglophiles) you may have gone something like: 'well that sounds like a rather familiar internet phenomenon turned orgasmic novel, now doesn't it?' It does, no use hiding the fact. Mil Millington is someone who (right along with being one of those twice my age and totally impossible pseudo-celebrity crushes) is one of my inspirations. He is...well, genius, to put it mildly. If you know nothing of him you better be opening new tabs and windows to Google and Wikipedia your heart out. Go on now, go on! So now that you know who he is, know that this threeshot is mostly just fun I'm having at putting my own fanfiction spin on his novel. To be enjoyed and nothing more than that, unless you hate it, in which case I suppose it will also be hated. :c  
**Dedication**: For eksley05, the superbestfriend. Remember: Kansas has time machines.  
**Warnings**: Well, look. It's rated T, for teen. Teens do some crazy shit, have fun.  
**Pairing(s)**: Kyle/Stan, Craig/Tweek, Christophe/Pretentious French Accent, and more to come.  
**Disclaimer**: Oft situations in this threeshot are shamelessly stolen from Mil's original, sue me. Only don't, because ha, look, disclaimer!

**Part I**: I Really Hate These Days  
**"**We can't possibly afford this. We couldn't even afford to buy enough drugs to hallucinate that we could afford it.**"  
--**from _Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About _by **Mil Millington**

Let me begin by saying this, despite everything that's happened in this relatively short time period, I still maintain that, really, it's not my fault. And that the fault really lies on a few factors. See, I could have, might have, been able to prevent some of things that occurred, but when you know the whole story you'll quickly know that I had a lot of other things going on. Not more important things when I really think about it.

But somehow, when I put all of it together in my mind - I don't know, I feel sort of justified for not seeing it all coming.

And none of it was my fault, not really.

Though, yeah, I could have done a bit better at keeping the whole French mafia thing in check, I'll take the blame there. But really, how was I supposed to have known how that would turn out? Well, I should probably get to the point. But, fuck, I repeat: not my fault. And really, the whole thing is kind of funny. You know, to someone who isn't as involved as I am. But for the record, if you so much as sneeze and it sounds like you're laughing at _any _of this, I will not hesitate to murder you where you stand.

Of course that's a joke though, I don't want to add even more charges to the ones I'm facing. The whole point of this thing is so maybe I can get off scott-free. Not that you care much, I can imagine. Just - listen and I think you'll see that the media has this all wrong. None of them know how this really started. With TSR, they say one day, or with my boss the next. No, no, no. It all started, with me being late to work.

**xxx**

"Where _are _the fucking car keys?"

That morning started out normally enough. I rolled out of bed, nearly fell on my face and broke several bones, got a reassuring, and muffled, 'could you be any louder' from my adoring and concerned boyfriend, and couldn't find any clothes that didn't seem to smell faintly of some sort of food. Yes, normal day so far. In fact, as it ended up, I was early. Yes, fifteen minutes ago I was so early I had no idea what to do with myself. I was wandering around, fully dressed and ready, with nothing to do.

But you see, there was a tiny problem with me being early. My life is supposed to be thoroughly discontent. I'm allowed my happy moment here and there, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. I mean, I nearly felt like smiling this morning. Can't be having that. So first things naturally coming first - as first things have a nasty habit of doing - I can't find the car keys.

More specifically my car keys, seeing as, you know, I'm the only one who actually leaves the apartment and _does _things. But Abraham forbid I mention this in any way, because then it would diminish the fact that Stan works at home and then I would be putting down every person ever who worked at home, which I have been informed technically includes every President ever, does it not? Yes, it does, apparently. So, as not to be rude to any government officials, they are the keys, not my keys.

Regardless I've no fucking idea where they are, so, then, I react in the only way that seems sensible to me.

"Well?" I accuse, from the living room side of the main room of the apartment, looking under the cushions of the couch. Agh, stupid me. I cross the threshold into the kitchen. Need I stress, there is _no _wall between these two areas, they are just that. Areas. No walls making it hard for Stan to hear me when he is a few feet away with absolutely _no _solid wall or anything of the kind to block his hearing. Yet, it seems, he has constructed a mental wall between the two rooms.

"Well?" I ask again. Not counting these two 'well's I have asked, well, _yelled_, a total of three times inquiring as to where the car keys are. And two times as to where the fucking car keys are. So, if you are, say, keeping track of things, that's five times I have verbally screamed in a two-room apartment asking this question. So, please, as you understand the situation, try to understand how I feel when Stan next speaks.

"Well what?" is what I get from him. That and, I suppose, an indifferent look from over his coffee.

"We - wh - the car keys, Stan, the fucking _car _keys," I sputter, much like my car engine might be doing if I had what I'm looking for. "Where are they?"

"Um, where they always are," Stan says, raising an eyebrow at me and pursing his lips.

"Oh, oh _sorry_," I reply. "How absolutely stupid of me. How did I not - I mean I checked everywhere. But thank you for that one. How could I have not thought to check where they always are? Thank you for that. I - I, what do you mean where they _always_ are? I wasn't aware they were always somewhere." In the background the phone rings.

"That's where they are," he tells me with a shrug. "Oh also, could you get some more coffee on your way home? We're running out, and I have a job today and Kenny's helping, so we'll definitely be out by tomorrow."

The phone rings again. "Yeah, yeah I can get some coffee," I say. There is a slight possibility that I may explode. Literally. "Or, rather, you know, I _would_. If. I could. Find. The fucking. Car keys." It is quite unfortunate because while the whole 'dividing words up into small sentences' tactic might sound angry when other people use it, Stan has informed me - many times, actually - that I just sound like a retard with a speech impediment.

Stan just sighs and points across the room towards the table we have behind the couch. "They're by the lava lamp," he says, "like always."

I go and pick them up, get to the door and open it, then turn around and say, "I thought you just bought that lava lamp yesterday."

"Yeah," he says, "I put it right next to your keys. Make sure to get that coffee, right?"

"Yeah," I echo.

I suppose some of you would like a more formal introduction to the situation I'm currently in. Really, it's quite nosy of you. But I don't blame you. Nosy, yes, but hardly a problem I didn't create for myself, I admit, so I'll explain things for those of you who need to hear every little detail. Like I said, nosy.

You see, Stan and I have been best friends since about, well, ever. Honest, I don't think I can remember time when we weren't best friends. Due to psychological trauma, the fact that we're probably both masochistic and some kind of luck (good or bad, you tell me) we started dating midway through high school. And then promptly broke up. And then got back together. And then broke up. And then...well, you can figure.

You know how they say sometimes it's best to just remain friends with someone? Yeah, that's what most people think about Stan and I. Because as best friends, oh sure. We fought. But as a couple, we have battles. Over everything. We don't care if it's about the fact that one of us got Evian water bottles when they know the other cannot stand how that brand tastes (which is just silly, really, Stan, it's water, it doesn't taste like _anything_). But even if it's that, we will argue about it. We will also argue about things that have not happened. Things that happened years ago. Things that happened before we were born.

Anything and everything, we will argue about.

Oh, shit, I'm getting off topic, aren't I? It's easy to do, you know. But I guess I should get to the point, huh? Here goes nothing, I suppose.

I work in a library. Okay, there we go. No turning back. Sorry if I'd deceived any of you into thinking I was a fantastically famous actor or anything. No, though with my good looks, who knows. For right now, though, I'm a part-time student and part-time worker in the University of Colorado (1) library. Oh, sorry. Learning Center. You might think it's a library, it could fool you, with all the books and resources and computer terminals, but no. It's not a library.

Anyway, it's where I work. And though technically I have a staff position I still get paid the minimum wage the rest of the student workers get paid. Why, in God's name, do I have a staff position? Well, partly because apparently all you to get the position is enough knowledge to know how to turn a computer on and to say 'Windows _always_ does this, nothing I can do about it.' If you let the guy doing the interview know, ever so casually, that _of course _'http' stands for Hypertext Transfer Protocol, they won't even fire you for something as silly as, say, all the computers in the building not working.

But also, the guy who used to have the job has reportedly left the country avoiding drug charges. Ah, yes, probably best not to broadcast that they're looking for a replacement, just stick some kid into the place and pretend nothing's happened at all.

So, anyway, I'm sure you have friends. Those wonderful people who always make things better no matter what's going on in your life, right? Or, if you're anything like me, those wonderful people who make things monumentally harder than they should be and leave you to wonder why you even associate with them and if it's not possible to hire a hit man to get rid of them one of these days if you save up enough money. You know, friends, the bane of everyone's existence.

Yeah, my friends think that because I have an actual job in the Learning Center they are exempt from all the rules. And, okay, maybe Token and Clyde are exempt because they work under me, and, you know, actually know how to fix the computers, while the rest of us run around in circles blaming it all on Bill Gates. But in no way is anyone else exempt from the rules, no matter how long I've known them.

So, for example, when Craig Nommel comes sauntering in like he owns the place, gives me a wave and sets off to grab an empty computer, I have to run over and remind him he doesn't even go to U of C and that the computers are for students _only_, and if he really wants to use them so badly he can transfer his community college credits over to the university and then be graced with the sickeningly slow load time of our computers, but until then he's going to have to be without it.

Or, when Cartman (he has a first name, but please, I'd rather not give the impression I _care_), who does go to the university - I'm pretty sure money was involved and maybe his mother - starts looking at any websites with Nazi propaganda on it, it's me who reminds him he's majoring in journalism, and besides, whether his article is about modern Nazi groups or not, I really _hate _him and it would be best for everyone if he just got out of my sight before I have to murder him.

Of course, Cartman never leaves when I say that.

But you see my point, I don't give my friends special treatment just because they're, you know, friends. Well, really friends is such a relative word. I hate to sound arrogant, but I don't really like to associate with most people. I mean, besides the fact that most everyone I know is so close to being retarded it's not even funny, I'm just not a people person. People get on my nerves for the stupidest reasons, is what Stan says. In my opinion people do stupid things and get on my nerves for _good _reasons.

Basically, when I call them friends, that term is all relative. All it means is that I, whether I want to or not, know them and tolerate them for reasons which are often unknown to me.

It's kind of like when I say I'm going to work, when all that really means is I'm going to be a hardass to everyone and act like I'm older than I am just to get everyone to listen to me. Sometimes I even wear a tie. I'm supposed to monitor all the computer areas and make sure, you know, no one's jacking off or looking up how to make a bomb or playing one of those really addictive internet games. Because all the computers in the Learning Center are for _learning_. Which means when I walk by people pull up a new internet page that's always suspiciously on the Google search page.

What I'm trying to say is, when the clock tells me it's fifteen minutes past twelve, a little part of my soul jumps up happily and does a dance, while I gather my stuff to leave for my lunch break.

**xxx**

"Let's see," Kenny says when I sit down. "You can take one CD - and one only, to a deserted island. Which one is it?"

Without hesitation, Wendy answers, "Celine Dion's Let's Talk About Love."

Both I and Kenny make faces as if we're going to puke. I'm pretty sure I can taste puke in my mouth actually, but being the gruff man I am - which, if you've been paying attention means absolutely nothing - I swallow it back down. "Wendy," Kenny says, putting a hand to his mouth. "I never knew you were a fan of...that."

"Oh," Wendy's eyes widen and she blinks. "Oh, no. I thought you meant if we take one CD to a deserted island and _leave_ it there." She shakes her head and then carefully moves a few displaced hairs back to their original spots, then glares decidedly at the salad in front of her. "No," she says, stabbing a piece of lettuce violently, scarily, actually, "no I am not a fan of that."

Okay, as much as I love Wendy like a sister, she's a little bit insane. I mean, I ordered a sandwich with meat on it once and she began a tirade about how cruel eating meat is. But if you watch her, she devours plants. I'm telling you, she's a savage herbivore, I pity the salads she orders, they have no idea what they're in for. I also pity anyone who dates her, because Wendy is strictly structured and if you throw things out of order she will _explode_.

But, enough about Wendy, all I meant to say really was that she's a lovely human being who every person in the world would gouge their eyes out willingly for if it would give them just a sliver of a chance to be with her, and who would never (ever) get mad at me if she knew I was telling people things about her that she sometimes doesn't even seem to realize. No. That would not be like Wendy at all.

Really, if we're talking friends, I guess Wendy and Kenny are the closest thing to friends I have. Wendy is currently studying woman's rights at U of C Boulder and taking classes for health information technology at the university's Denver campus. Which, to put it into simpler terminology, confirms the fact that she's a little bit insane. You can tell she's pushing herself into way too much just by looking at her, with the bags under her eyes and the fact that she's wearing glasses. Which, if you know Wendy, is odd, because she doesn't need glasses.

Kenny, on the other hand, is taking the opposite route. Meaning, he gets by on looks and talent alone and gets a full night of sleep more than once a month. I would kill him for being so lucky, but he'd just come back to life anyway, so I don't bother. You see, Kenny is what you might call a delinquent. A vagabond. A lovable little scamp. Okay, maybe not the last one. But he's, well, sneaky. Devious. And, though I hate to admit it, utterly charming when he chooses to be, and sometimes even when he doesn't.

Which means he fools people into thinking he really needs money, denies that he needs it, turns down their offers reputedly, and then finally accepts and either gets a fresh check or does easy little odd jobs, collecting money from several different sources who all think they're the only one helping the desolate young man out. Doesn't hurt that he looks the part, all skinny as fuck in his ratty, old orange parka, with messy blond hair and big, innocent blue eyes. God, if he wasn't my best friend I'd probably despise him with every fiber of my being. Actually...

So they're probably my best friends, the insane, overworked vegetarian girl and the immortal, douche bag guy in the orange parka. I spend every lunch break across the street from the university, in this dark restaurant (though, if you ask me, it's more like a bar that serves a lot of food) where most of the employees and students go for lunch and dinner. And since they know everything about my life and I have no one else to complain to, I mostly do it to them.

After all, what are friends for?

"So then," I tell them, "he tells me to get _coffee_. Coffee, because, _you_," I say, motioning wildly to the blond sitting across from me, "are coming over to help him with work and it's going to be gone."

"He gave me half of what he got for the job, I wasn't going to turn that down," Kenny says in defense.

"_Half_?" I know I'm whining, but honestly? Don't care. "We're behind on rent already, how can he give you _half _of what he got? Did you do half of the work?"

Kenny shrugs. "I helped him figure out why he couldn't log onto the laptop he was fixing. He had caps lock on."

"Yes," I say, "yes, that was definitely worth half of what he got paid."

"Hey, if I hadn't told him he wouldn't of even gotten on the thing in the first place," Kenny says, putting his hands up. "I didn't ask for half the money, he just gave it to me and said thanks for the help, and I didn't argue with him about it, really." I'm not exactly listening any more, I'm trying to figure out if someone would notice if you laced their coffee with arsenic.

No, no Stan would definitely notice, he checks for that sort of thing, at least when it comes to things I have the opportunity to poison.

Now some people might be wondering: Jesus, Kyle, why are you with someone you hate so much, someone you consider _murdering_? First off, I don't hate him, I am actually in love with him, thank you very much. Second, yes, I do want to murder him sometimes, but no one who is in a respectable relationship can really admit to not wanting to murder their significant other from time to time. And, third, we didn't start off like this. I mean, when we were best friends, we weren't like this.

Wendy says it all stems from how Stan asked me out. She says I can't just ignore that I was asked out in a very appalling way. That I should have said no. Don't get her wrong, she doesn't object to our relationship, she just, as girls are prone to, can't understand why I said agreed to go out with him when he proposed the idea in the way he did. I don't know why either. It would be easier if I explained things to you.

Sometime at the beginning of eleventh grade, I was laying on my bed, reading a comic book (yes, a comic book, stop giggling at me, and let me get on with this) and Stan was playing some game on my computer. We were sitting in comfortable silence, I was not staring at Stan longingly and he was not stealing little glances at me and blushing or anything like that. Wendy says that's what would have - _should _have - been happening, but sorry, it wasn't.

To be honest, I was kind of getting a runny nose and was about to say I'd go grab a box of tissues so as not to use the comforter on the bed, because I really didn't want to do laundry and then that would have been an awkward night's sleep. I usually keep that detail out when I explain this to people, but I'm just trying to illustrate how un-romantic the whole thing was. After all, what's less romantic than a runny nose? Nothing, I tell you, nothing. So I sit up and go to use the sleeve of my jacket to wipe my nose (are you picturing this, really, please do) and Stan turns around. I proceed to wipe my nose, because, honestly, what do I care?

"Hey," Stan had said. "I was thinking."

One thing to know about Stan, is that, while he is a very emotional sort of persons if it strikes his fancy to be so, he often is just as inexpressive as that one high school teacher who speaks in constant monotone that everyone has had. It might have something to do with the traumatizing past we have together, or maybe he has just matured to the point of being able to control his emotions. Still, I'm rather fond of him being traumatized. Regardless, he sounded completely emotionless and somewhat indifferent as he said, "I think I might like you as more than a friend."

I think this is the point where I was supposed to either blush and look away or feel extremely awkward and cry at loss of our best friendship as it changed forever. Instead I said, "I think I have to blow my nose, can I go get a tissue and we can talk about this when I get back?" Stan just shrugged and turned back to the computer. I got a tissue and, no, I did not stand in front of the mirror in my bathroom contemplating what I was going to do. I blew my nose, threw the tissue in the garbage can, grabbed the tissue box and went back to my room, all while wondering, not how I was going to handle this blow to my romantic life, but instead contemplating whether I was getting the cold that was getting around.

"So, anyway," Stan said when I got back. "How do you feel about that?"

"Not too bad," I answered. "Not exactly what I was expecting, but I can't say I'm upset about it."

"Alright then, we're dating." And Stan turned back to his game and I went back to my comic book and we fell back into comfortable silence.

Oh, I know. That wasn't very romantic. I guess if I'd mentioned it felt like I was going to die because my heart was beating so fast, it would have sounded more...I don't know. Cute or something. But really, there are a lot of words to describe Stan and I, and cute? Is not one of them, thank you. If anyone ever called us cute I'd probably plan their murder or demise, whichever sounded nicer at the time.

But Wendy says, our 'problems' all come from the fact that we started going out, you know, like normal people do. That we didn't have a big romantic revelation and that we weren't - and aren't, honestly - infatuated with each other. Because we just have a regular relationship that includes fighting about everything that's ever existed. She insists that if we have enough dramatic flair for the fights we get into, we should have had more it when getting together.

Well, sorry, but I'm not going to take advice from the girl who broke up with her last boyfriend because he wouldn't cut his bangs (she wanted to be able to see his eyes more, so she came at him with scissors at two in the morning to cut his bangs. Yeah).

And besides, since when do people _actually _make big scenes out of getting together? Call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure it mostly only happens to people on television shows and in movies and to celebrities, who have to make everything feel like a television show or movie. Normal people, we have things to do. We can't have big romantic adventures and life-changing moments. At least I know I can't.

Regardless, Wendy isn't the only one who finds our relationship a bit weird. And whatever, that's fine. Because for the most part, the rest of them, they don't try to 'fix' things. I mean, they do make their fair share of remarks to me and to Stan as well. Sometimes we discuss them, mostly during commercials if we're watching television. Just sort of throw things they've said to us recently back and forth and have a good laugh. Or sometimes fight about it, but that's besides the point.

"Yes, well, you can tell Bebe," Kenny is saying, "that I've...got a girlfriend. Kyle, dude, where should my girlfriend be from this time?"

"Uhn?" I say. Being dragged back into a conversation when you've barely been listening is hardly fun, luckily I've listened to this whole tirade enough times to know what has basically been said. Wendy's been like, but Kenny, she's my best friend, I can't tell her that you won't date her because she's a slut. And Kenny's been like, I know, Wendy, but I can't talk to her, she's insane, ah, I know, I'll make up a girlfriend, twenty-third time ought to be the charm. "Well," I begin, somewhat thoughtfully, "Last time you had one in Utah, but she quickly figured out that was a sham."

"D'you think I should say she's across the country for business or something?" Kenny asks us, with a frown.

"God no," Wendy hisses. She glowers at the blond. "Then she'll ask where she works and you'll say something ridiculous again, like Taco Bell, and she'll know you're lying."

"Canada," I finally say, snapping my fingers. Kenny looks at me skeptically. "No, no, it's perfect. Trust me. What we can do, is say she's Ike's half-sister. He has one, very definitely Canadian and all that. And she's in college right now, so we'll just say some bullshit about how she's in some program that American schools don't have yet. Besides, you know Bebe hates Canada."

"She does," Wendy offers, with a wistful smile. "No one hates Canada more than Bebe."

"It's settled then, I have a girlfriend in Canada," Kenny says, grinning.

**xxx**

When I get back to work, my boss is waiting in my office. Office, like friends, is a rather relative term. What is an office, really, but the place where people go to look for you when they need something? Alright, fine. The actual office for the Computer Resources Director (which is the job I technically have) can't be touched by anyone who isn't a police officer. Or a member of FBI, but that's just what I've heard. So my 'office' is actually a computer lab where half the time there are classes being held. It's nice. When there's not, you know, a class being held.

Okay, fine, it sucks cock.

But anyway, my boss is in there, so I have to pretend like it doesn't. "Hi, uh, sir," I say, trying to sound like I'm content with my office and happy to see him at the same time. Needless to say, I fail. Hard.

My boss is somewhat old, and he works at a place that is pretty much always full of young people. Therefore, he never looks very calm and always looks very sweaty. I'm going to go ahead and not say his name, ever. Because, first off, no one _ever _says his name anyway. Second, I'm probably going to be insulting him a lot, and I wouldn't want to get sued for slander, even if it is true. And third, he's kind of in deep shit now, you've probably seen him in the newspapers. My point is, he's just my boss and whether or not he played a hand in everything that's to come...well, that remains to be seen.

Anyway, my boss says, "Yes, hello, Broflovski," only he doesn't really say my last name right. I can't even recall how many different variations of my last name he's come up with. Just, understand, whenever he says my last name, he's really saying some fucked-up wrong version of it. "Look," he says, wiping some sweat off his forehead, "have you started going through TSR's old files?" TSR (2) is the guy who used to have my job and his files are one-quarter porn, one-quarter personal notes, and one-half useless work stuff in absolutely no order. In other words, fuck no, I haven't.

"I've started to," I tell him enthusiastically.

"Good, good," he says, nodding. His fake hair piece looks ready to fall off and I would tell him, but, well, nah. "Somewhere in there you should have picked something up about, uh, the _Unione Corse _(3)?" he asks, trying and failing to say the latter two words with a French accent. It's enough to make me feel a headache coming on.

"I can't say that I have, sir," I say as if I'm considering it. "But really, TSR didn't keep his stuff in great order, I'm having a hard time even finding what's work files and what's his own stuff."

"I'm sure, I'm sure." Have I mentioned he has this annoying habit of saying things twice for absolutely no reason whatsoever? "That sounds like him, alright. And you've heard that they're saying he was high as a kite most of the time he was here, haven't you, Broflovski? They keep asking me how I couldn't have noticed that, but how could I have? I have to take care of the whole library!"

"Learning Center," I say in a monotone, "sir." It's completely out of habit, I swear, I have to correct every single person who asks me something about the 'library.'

"Oh, right." He grimaces. "Well, no matter. The reason I was asking is because there's a member of the _Unione Corse _here to talk to you, or, well, to talk to TSR. But he's not here. You're a smart guy though, Broflovski, I'm sure you've heard of the group before." I stare at him blankly, trying to send non-verbal messages to him, that I have no idea what the hell this thing is. He does not get them. "I do believe he must have wandered off, because I wouldn't let him smoke in here, he got rather...upset about that. But I'll just go find him and send him here again, alright? Alright."

As soon as he leaves, I Wikipedia that shit. Then I stare. And stare. I do a good bit of reading as well. But mostly I just stare. Why - _why _- in the fuck is the French mafia here to see me? Why in the fuck would the French mafia have wanted to see TSR? Now that I think on it, I guess I sort of know about them. The French Connection and all that, but. But...I never. I mean, why do they want to talk to _me_?

After thinking 'holy shit' only a few thousand times, I turn off the monitor of my computer and sit back.

"Are, you, ah, somezing wiz a...I'm sorry, I cannot say your last name," a voice says from my door with a distinctly French accent.

"Most people can't," I say, not bothering to look up. Of course, about a second after that, it registers in my mind that a French accent in Colorado is about as common as...as nothing. It just never happens. Which means, there's undoubtedly a member of the French mafia standing in he doorway to my pseudo-office. Which means he's probably going to ask me where TSR hides his heroin supplies or something. Internally, I freak out and have an existential crisis, externally, I get up and turn around calmly.

There is a guy who looks to be about my age, standing near the printer and pressing the buttons. Honestly, he looks like he could probably kill me. And maybe ten other people if he really wanted to. But I mean, he's not, yet. And as far as I can see he doesn't have any guns. Of course he wouldn't need a gun to totally murder me, if he's part of the French mafia. He could use a...a...a shovel, and I'd just be, bam, dead.

He looks up from the printer, "You are not Terry." Which, for a second, confuses the hell out of me. I mean, yes, I'm not Terry, but I'm also not a lot of people. Then I realize he means TSR, who's T stands for Terry, but who didn't let anyone ever utter his first name. I guess I can see him allowing this guy to call him Terry, because honestly, this guy is not someone you would be excited to argue with.

"No, I'm not," I say, and score one for me, because it's an actual coherent sentence. "I'm Kyle and TSR is...away. He's out. He's not here anymore. I think he's running away from drug charges. _Not _that drug charges would be something to run away from, I mean, drugs aren't a big deal. If there weren't laws about drugs, I would be doing them all the time." I'm babbling and really, really aware of it. But I'm kind of scared he'll murder me on the spot if I even so much as say a metaphor that implies that he's in the wrong.

"Okay," he says slowly. He glances around the room as if to make sure no one is hiding under one of the desks and listening in. "You don't 'ave to pretend to be 'appy wiz zis 'ole thing. I'm not, believe me."

"Right, yeah," I say, walking past him to the doorway and looking out to see if my boss is outside. He isn't as far as I can see, but he's a creep, so I close to door, and then lean against it. "The thing is, I have no fucking idea what's going on. And you...you. Who are you?"

"Ah, Christophe," he says, raising an eyebrow. God, he could probably use his eyebrows to murder me.

"That's really original. Alright, Christophe," I continue, "you have to tell me what the fuck is going on. Because TSR - your Terry - yeah, he's not here. Long gone, like I said. And if you know TSR, then you know he never told me shit. I haven't even started going through his files. Don't, by the way, tell my boss that, he's under the impression that I have, for some reason."

"There's a very small problem wiz all of zat," Christophe says, with a sheepish smile. "I'm not - ah, how do I say zis? I do not know any more zan you do about zis 'ole zing, to be honest. You see, I 'ave been part of ze _Unione Corse _since I was born, but I am still not an inducted member. So to speak, zis iz my first time actually doing anyzing."

"So, you..." I trail off, surely proving my intelligent worth to him. "You honestly have no idea what this is for?"

"Well I 'ave a general idea," he replies, with a shrug. "But Terry was supposed to explain ze finer details to me."

"Yes, well, I'd have to that what the finer details are what have him hiding across the border right now," I say, leaning my head back against the door. "Fuck. Well, look, I don't know what to tell you, unless you can explain to me why the French mafia has _any _business with the University."

"I do know zat," Christophe interjects, dare I say, excitedly. I gesture for him to get on with it. "Well, I know American universities 'ave to keep up a good number of foreign students. So, ah, we send zem to you. Or, razer, you take zem from us. Using, you know, your own transportation. You fly zem over...along wiz drugs, and zen you educate zem. Basically, et's good for boz of us."

"We - we educate the French mafia?" I manage to squeak out.

"Well, part of et," Christophe says after a moment of thought. "I mean et's not just zis school, et 'appens all over your country." That doesn't exactly make me feel any better. "Actually, I came 'ere years ago. Zough, I didn't go to school, mostly I just ran around and 'elped during a certain war zat most people don't seem to remember."

"Oh my - fuck, that _was _you, wasn't it?" I had thought it might be him, but honestly, Christophe isn't exactly a rare French name. Still, no doubt, it is him. Most people don't remember the American-Canadian War, I'm sure you don't. It's mostly only people who were directly involved with it, and even then you have to have been a kid at the time. Or at least, that's what I've seen in my experience. So if Christophe remembers it, there's no doubt he's _that _Christophe, the Mole, and it makes sense, now, that he's with the French mafia.

"Ah, oui, zat was me," he says, with a shrug. "You should know I got into a ton of trouble because of you guys."

"What, with your mom?" I ask with a snort.

"Well, yes, considering we were forced to move after zat and zen my muzzer was killed," he says, seriously.

"Oh," I say. "Wow. You...you really know how to make things depressing."

"Do I?" he asks. "I was only kidding, my muzzer is still alive. Well, zat's debatable, actually, 'alf ze time she zinks I am my fazer, which is somewhat creepy, but at least she doesn't ask me when I am going to get married."

"Ah, well, that's nice," I say with a small smile. "My mom's still a bitch."

"I figured, no offense." Christophe returns the smile.

"Yeah, well - oh, shit, we're getting really off-topic here," I realize, running a hand through my hair. "Is there something I'm supposed to do? Or something TSR was supposed to do?"

Christophe shrugs, looking honestly bewildered. "All I was told was zat 'e would be 'ere waiting for me," he says. "Zey said 'e would know to do and zat it 'ad to do wiz ze students and drugs we send over 'ere. I did not zink to ask about anyzing else, if zey wanted me to know about et, I would know. You do not exactly ask zem for information."

"That's great," I say, haltingly. I walk over to wear he's standing and motion for him to move out of the way of my computer. "All I can really do is check TSR's computer files. I mean, if you're going to be here for a while I can start going through his actual filing cabinets, but there's no way in hell I'll even be able to sort through one drawer today. I have shit to do." Like check my e-mail and go home and sleep. Maybe watch some television.

"Zat's fine," Christophe says in answer. "Whatever zey had going on wiz Terry, zey gave me a few weeks to do it."

"Nn, alright," I say, distractedly. Luckily enough I have TSR's log-in information, since he left so quickly, most of the stuff I need for my job is on his personal account. So, easily enough, I can log in as him and look through his stuff. I've done it before, but mostly I was looking to see if there was anything about him having an affair or blatantly obvious drug references, not looking for anything about the _Unione Corse_. It doesn't take long to find something, which makes me believe TSR wasn't very worried about getting caught. That or he made the file while he was high or something.

"Anyzing?" Christophe asks, looking over my shoulder.

"Well, your group is all over his fucking calendar," I tell him. "Right up to this meeting, but nothing after it. Great, TSR, awesome."

"Maybe tomorrow I could 'elp you go through 'is files," Christophe offers.

"Um," I turn around to look at him, "that's not a good idea. Half of TSR's stuff is probably covered in, like, semen."

"Did 'e...really like work?" Christophe asks, looking confused.

"Almost as much as he liked drugs, apparently," I reply, straight-faced. Christophe just blinks a few times. "Jesus, how are you part of the French mafia? Did you miss the chance to come over here and go to college?"

Christophe just rolls his eyes at me and heads for the door. Once he gets there, he opens it and turns back to me, saying, "I'll be back tomorrow, zen, and I will 'ave a gun wiz me." He leaves and not a second later my boss stumbles in, looking a hell of a lot sweatier than usual. I just smile.

**xxx**

By the time I get home, though, I'm not smiling.

"It's like you don't even listen to me," Stan is saying, and he's kind of right, because I'm not really listening to him right now. "I mean, I told you expressly, to get coffee. I told you we would run out of it. I even told Kenny to remind you. Because I knew you would forget, because you always forget, Kyle. So now tomorrow, when I'm in a bitchy mood - "

"It won't be any different than usual," I cry, turning to look at him. "It's not even eight yet, go out and get it for yourself."

"That's not the point, Kyle and you _know _it," he says, glaring at me from the living room. "The point is that you never listen."

"I thought the point was that I didn't get the coffee," I say, feeling completely hopeless.

"No, no, no, that's just the result of the fact that you never listen to what I'm saying," he informs me. "You haven't listened to me since I've known you."

"Uh, no, I'm pretty sure I have, Stan," I scoff. "God, you have to make everything into this huge thing, don't you? Look, I'm sorry I didn't get the coffee. I forgot, alright? I had a lot of shit happen today. Besides all the normal shit with students and computers, I had some guy from the French mafia - I didn't even know they _had _one - come to tell me that U of C is in drug trafficking and that he has no idea what he's here for, but apparently I'm supposed to know all about it."

"Kyle," Stan says, shuddering slightly, "you know I don't like to talk about stuff like that."

"Oh, _sorry_," I say, smirking at him. He pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters something about 'not again.' "You're the one who brought it up. Sorry that any talk of anything French, not to mention British or Canadian, totally reminds you of Gregory. Which reminds you of Wendy. Which reminds me that you sure as fuck aren't getting any for, like, a week."

"Jesus, Kyle, you're such a girl," Stan whines, throwing one of the cushions from the couch at me. "Every single time, would you get over it?"

"Would _you_?" I shoot back. "And just so you know, remember the Mole? The French kid who helped us during the war? Yeah, it's the same guy." Stan stares at me for a long moment and then mouths a violent '_what_' that I'm sure is half for me and half for himself. "Yeah, well, how many French people do you think come to Colorado? He was bound to show up again."

"Oh my god," Stan says slowing, looking at me intently. "You _like _him."

"Wha - what? Stan, where the hell did you get that from?" is all I can manage to sputter out. "How in the hell did I, in any way, indicate that I like him?" I'm quite sure that I didn't do anything at all. But that's the thing about Stan, as much as I love him, he totally can't stand when I have the upper hand. Because, truth be told, Stan is still and will always still be pining after Wendy in some way or another. I don't think she's a threat or anything, she's one of my best friends, but Stan grew up putting her on a pedestal and he's never stopped. The problem is, whenever I point that out he quickly finds someone I 'like,' and believe me, Christophe is not the most far-fetched theory he's ever had.

"You don't sound so upset that you have to spend all this time with him," he accuses.

"Dude, I'm going to have to spend at least a week with him going through TSR's filing cabinets," I say, franticly. "God only knows what's in there, so yeah, I'd kind of rather go through it with someone else. And then, if we even find anything in there, it's probably just going to tell me how to set up a deal with how many students we get from France and - and how many grams of heroin they bring with them or something. I'm hardly fucking _excited _at the prospect."

"Oh that's what you say," Stan says, standing up, all pissed off-like, "but I'm sure you're thinking about it."

"Of course I'm thinking about," I yell, "I'm freaking the fuck out about it. The guy could probably murder me if I really bothered him enough."

"Well - well then," Stan yells back, and then he falters for a second, pointing at me, poised to say something really hurtful, "I hope...he does." And he stalks off to our room and slams the door. About five seconds later he comes back out and grabs my car keys - _mine _- off the table and says, "I'm going to go get my coffee," and leaves.

I just kind of shrug and go to find something to put in the microwave. At the time, I'm thinking, eh, we've had worse. In reality, this whole thing, from Stan and I to the French mafia, soon enough it's going to get a lot worse. But, for the moment, I'm not too worried. I'm just telling myself - like every other person in history who was doomed to be terribly, terrible wrong - it's not like it can get much worse.

**xxx**

The next morning Stan and I both act relatively civilized towards one another, only because it's a Tuesday and on Tuesdays Stan teaches some computer class at our local rec center or something. He gets very vague when I ask about it and says he doesn't get paid enough for the shit he has to deal with. Yeah. He deals with small groups of 40-somethings who, sure, don't know how to turn on a computer, but at least he doesn't have to tell them to stop playing internet flash games. Or maybe he does, I don't know, like I said: he doesn't tell me anything.

And did I mention he gets paid three times as much as I do for it? The unfairness in the world astounds me sometimes, it really does.

The great thing about human beings is that they will always, without exception, act nice towards you if they want something. Operative word: act. They are not truly being nice to you. But in this day and age, acting is even more than you expect. Someone acting indifferent towards me, for example, will sometimes make my day. Just compared to how other people will treat you, it's nice to have someone pretend to be nice. And it is actually fun to not give them what they want right away just to prolong this.

For most people, and for Stan, they act nice when they want money. Because, you see, Stan usually makes more money, but he _always _spends more of it. More of it that we don't have. So I take care of it. Or control it and don't let him touch it ever, whichever way you think is nicer to put it.

Now, you should understand, I'm not a very extravagant person. My car is used and I'm not really too worried about the fact that the radio broke the first day I had it (which, incidentally, sparked a great argument back in the day). I don't feel the need to go to the Bahamas or anything for a vacation - I can't be bothered, I don't have the time, and besides, I sunburn like a bitch. I sure wouldn't argue with moving to a bigger apartment, but I know it's not possible right now, so I don't think much about it. Stan has said on occasion, and I have even conceded, that my jacket looks like, at best, I stole it from the Salvation Army while they were contemplating whether or not it was safe to sell.

Contrary to popular belief these days, this does not make me a bohemian individual. No one looks at me and thinks 'Wow, there is a young man with some awesome fashion sense, I bet on his free time he has a small eco-friendly folk band and all their proceeds go to saving endangered animals and planting trees somewhere in South America.' No, actually, I was once going to lunch and Stan called me and the sidewalk was rather crowded, so I had to sidestep and kind of stand near the university gate and put my hand over my cell phone so I could hear, and someone threw change at me, mistaking me for a homeless person.

So you see, I'm better than Stan at not wasting money. As they say, waste not, want not. Or something. Point is, Stan wants and he wastes. One time I came home to find our current television sitting on a new entertainment center. And I mean, like, an entertainment center you'll probably only ever see sitting on a display at the furniture store. You know what I mean. The one that makes you go like, 'Oh that would look nice - oh wow, is it leagal to charge that much for something that's made out of wood?'

Luckily we handled the whole thing with a minimum of yelling and insulting one another ('Well maybe if you had a better job,' 'Oh don't act like you could do my job,' and other such classics). In the end the television stayed, because I had to admit that it made everything look a lot prettier and Stan had already given our old one away. But the entertainment center was returned and the money was spent on better things. Or possibly not, as about a week later we inexplicably had a new lava lamp, among other things.

I'm just explaining that, so you know why I react the way I do when Stan says, "Erm, do you think I could borrow a ten or something? I'm going to need to eat lunch."

Because, if you had just heard _that _of course, you would think I'm an asshole for saying, "No, Stan, I do not think you could borrow a ten. Or something," I add after a moment of thought. But knowing that Stan wastes his money I hope you don't think I'm an asshole. And if you do, fair enough, that's your call as you know the entirety of the situation, now don't you?

"Oh my - are you still on about last night?" Stan asks, smiling as if he's been shot in the face. Not that I'm sure how someone who's been shot in the face would smile. It just looks like his face is in a considerable amount of pain due to his smiling. "I'm really not angry any more, I got the coffee and all, so really. It's not a big deal."

"Well I'm _very _happy you got your coffee," I reply, because, admittedly, I needed some coffee too after having to sleep on the couch. Stan is so the girl emotionally in this relationship. "But the fact is I don't have much money as it is. Especially not in the car. Why didn't you ask me at the apartment? You know there's money there. I'm not in the habit of keeping money in the glove compartment or anything, you can go ahead and check."

He does and, of course, it's my fault when two travel maps, several insurance guides and assorted other things (none of which are gloves) fall out of the glove compartment.

"You're the one who told me to open it," he mutters, in that voice that a person uses when they _want _you to hear them, but they don't want you to know that they _want _you to hear them, but everyone does because everyone has used that voice before.

"Excuse me for employing sarcasm," I mutter in the same tone of voice. "Stan, if I was mad at you, you would be _walking _to work right now. I would not be physically driving you to work." Which is not true and we both know it. _I _would be walking to work. "If I had ten dollars to spare, I'd give them to you, but I only have enough for my lunch and five spare dollars in case I somehow get stranded or in a situation where someone's going to kill me if I don't give them money."

"Give me that money, then," Stan demands, stubbornly. "No one's going to try and kill you. You work in a library, Kyle. You walk two minutes to get to lunch. Most of the people you encounter every day aren't guilty of any crime, except maybe wearing clothes that are far too tight for any self-respecting human being. I hardly doubt that you ever will need that money, so come on, for just one day, give me your five dollars so I don't _starve_."

"Stan, I'm driving," I say, when he holds out his hand for the five dollars. "I'll give it to you when you get there."

I don't know about anyone else, but in my driver's training class they told us to keep both hands on the wheel _at all times_. They did not say we could make an exception when we had to dig money out of our pockets to give our boyfriends. They said: _at all times_. And, sure, most people don't really listen to that. But I'm a bad driver. A terrible driver. I won't admit it, especially not to Stan, but I'm a _horrible _driver. So honestly, keeping both hands on the wheel, that kind of keeps me from swerving off the road and killing several people. And Stan knows this, too.

I think you will agree with me, then, that the fact that he mumbles about me being a douche bag for the last ten minutes of the car ride is not exactly warranted. Then, he acts as if I'm doing him a personal injustice because it takes fifteen seconds for me to pull a five out of the pocket of my jacket. When I do finally give it to him we just sit there awkwardly until he says, "Right, then," and gets out of the car.

**xxx**

When I get to work, my boss in my office. Due to our recent track record in situations like this, I am not entirely heartened by this fact.

"Broflovski," he hisses, "close the door, close _the _door." I close the door and then stand there like an idiot, thinking he needs to take some sort of class in which words to stress. It is a very good thing he chose to wore a black shirt today, or else, no doubt, his shirt would be stained with sweat. It looks like he just got back from running a marathon on the sun. Well, besides him not being dead and that being completely impossible. "I have to ask you something."

"Shoot, sir," I say, trying to sound polite. Really I'm testing out the theory that if you say a word, like, I don't know, let's say, 'shoot,' that has a connection with a word such as, ah, let's go with 'gun,' that maybe saying that first word with enough conviction might cause the two words to mentally come together an activate. Thus, 'shoot' would cause the person it is directed at to be, well, shot.

It doesn't work, but he pales, like he knows what I'm trying to do. "What have you heard?" he gasps. "What have _you _heard? Is that how he did it? Do you have evidence? Why _didn't_ you tell me sooner?" Once again, the man needs a class or two, he's killing me here.

"I'm sorry," I interrupt, "but what the hell are you talking about. Um, sir?" Almost forgot it that time, but I caught it before he noticed, I did.

"Oh thank god, you weren't making a reference to TSR?" he asks quietly, glancing over my shoulder constantly, probably just checking to make sure the door isn't going to disappear into thin air for no apparent reason. I shake my head, slowly, so that he gets the full meaning. "Right, well, I'm sure you've heard he was wanted for drug charges. But those - those the university could handle. As it turns out," he says this with a nervous laugh of epic proportions, even for him, "he's apparently a person of interest in a murder case."

"I - we're talking about the same TSR who took his kids to Laser Tag against their own will just because _he _wanted to go, right?" I ask skeptically.

"The very same," my boss replies, sounding exhausted. I feel a bit bad for him. Just a bit. "I'm just letting you know because, as you're going through his files, it would be best if you find anything that's possibly incriminating to just...dispose of it. Somewhere. Possibly give it to the contractors. They're coming in today to start work on the new building and they'll probably want to talk to you."

"I - uh," is all I can say in response.

"Yes, you, you Broflovski!" he says with a half-chuckle, half-noise-that-makes-me-want-to-murder-him. It might have just been a plain chuckle, either way it has the same effect. "The new building is going to be partly a science building, but we're going to add computer labs in there and you'll be in charge of those too. Of course, not until they're built. And you'll get a pay raise of course. Isn't it exciting?"

I'm not sure if he means the fact that TSR might have _killed someone _and that I'm to give all evidence to the contractors, or that I'm going to be doing twice as much work for, probably, a two dollar raise.

"So, _so_ exciting, sir," I say.

**A/N**: First chapter, done, have any thoughts? Leave them in a review, I'd love to hear them, no matter what. I already have this threeshot finished and I'll be posting the second part next Tuesday and the last part the Tuesday after that. Oh a review schedule, makes me feel all tingly. So, yeah, I'll hopefully see y'all back here next week.  
(1) First things first, I have totally never been to U of C, ever in my life. This is based on the Boulder campus, just because Matt went there, so Kyle's there, something lame like that. But yeah, all the things the college gets involved with in this fic (which is basically loads and loads of illegal shit) I really doubt U of C actually gets into. I don't know, maybe it does, but this is all totally fictional, obviously, so don't believe a word.  
(2) TSR is taken right from the original book, so I claim him in no way whatsoever. Doubtful he'll ever show up in this story but he'll be mentioned enough that you should commit his initials to memory.  
(3) Yes, the _Unione Corse _is real. You can Wikipedia it (just like Kyle, yes, just like Kyle, folks) and read up on it. No one knows much about it, because French people are smart and they don't come over to America and broadcast themselves, which is basically why I figured most of you would go 'pfft, French mafia, she is so making this up.' Nope, although hey, sweet excuse to have Christophe in the story.  
Until next time,  
tweekers


	2. Part II

**Things My Boyfriend and I Have Argued About**

**A/N**: I usually have a shitload of things to say in here, but eh, what the hell, I really don't this time. Thanks for the reviews and I'm really sorry I couldn't get back to them personally, but here's the next part and I hope you enjoy.  
**Dedication**: For eksley05, the superbestfriend. Remember: We're going to Casa Bonita.  
**Warnings**: Oh come off it, what are you reading these for, you watch South Park for fuck's sake.  
**Pairing(s)**: Kyle/Stan, Craig/Tweek, Kenny/Fake Canadian Girlfriend and more to come.  
**Disclaimer**: Not yet, not yet, but one day Kyle will be mine and with him, all of South Park.

**Part II**: Colombian Death Squads  
"There isn't enough daylight left to list the things at which I'm better than you. In fact, even the thing you've practiced for the longest and most diligently - masturbation - I'm clearly better at, or you wouldn't ask me to do it for you, would you?"  
----from _Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About_ by **Mil Millington**

Now, it's become painfully clear to me of one thing. And it, honestly, took me years to realize this, but I think you will appreciate me telling you what it is I realized after two years of dating Stan. I'll set the scene for you. It's my eighteenth birthday, which in most people's minds translates to: really big party and alcohol and possibly sex and very possibly regretting it all at a later date.

For me, it translates to: sitting in Stan's room while he studies for his Trig test. Mmm, I know, I'm a rebel, but what can I say, I'm not a party person. Anyway, it's the middle of the afternoon, no definite time, but you know what I mean. Not so early that I'm dying from sleep deprivation, but not so late that I'm checking the time and going, 'Oh, that's why it's dark outside.'

So, if you've been following the story thus far, you've probably come to realize that Stan and I are often plagued by witty banter. The sad part is, neither of us can keep quiet for very long. Without the very witty banter that plagues us, we cannot survive. We need to make cutting remarks to one another in sarcastic tones and we need to do it all the time. Therefore, you should be able to understand why I couldn't just sit there while Stan studied and subsist on his various math questions from time to time.

I needed conflict. Now, you have the scene and the motive in your mind, correct? Because I'm not repeating myself. Hope that taught you the values of paying attention. Well, even if you've forgotten, I'm going to get on with it.

"How long have you had those shoes?" I ask, nonchalant. As fuck, I may add. Nonchalant as fuck.

Stan pauses, and then does something very unsettling and scary. He looks at me for a long moment, closes his Trig book and sets it on the floor. He knows that I'm not just asking a question, he looked at me and _knew_ that. How scary is that?

He says, very slowly, "Are you saying something, about my shoes?"

Now, I must interrupt the story for just a few seconds here. For those of you who don't know, Stan has worn the same red Converse for ages now. If I were to wager a guess, I would say he's had them since at least 772 B.C. I mean, these things are old. They're old. They're ripping and falling apart and probably deteriorating at a molecular level.

But Stan loves his shoes. He worships them, if I may go out on a whim and say so. Sometimes I wonder if he isn't planning on leaving me for them, that's how much the shoes mean to him. They are old and ripping and falling apart and probably deteriorating at a molecular level, yes. But they are his shoes and that's enough for him.

And everyone knows that. Everyone. Confronting Stan about his shoes is suicide. It's like teasing a member of a Colombian Death Squad. But the thing that separates Stan and a Colombian Death Squad - in fact, probably the only thing that separates them - is subtly. A Colombian Death Squad, sure, they have guns and they could probably kill me in 0.3 seconds if they really wanted to, but Stan...

He says, very slowly, "Are you saying something, about my shoes?" See that? That's the second time you've seen it. But do you really see it? Oh sure, on the surface, that's an easy question. Because of course I'm saying something about his shoes. I just said it, didn't I? And he's not stupid, he heard me, he knows that. What he's doing, in calm tones and with a simple question, is daring me to say that I am, in fact, saying something.

"No, I was just wondering when you got them," I say with a shrug. He narrows his eyes. "I didn't say that you could stand to buy a new pair. I didn't say that they're looking kind of worn. I didn't say anything like that. I simply asked when you got them."

"So what you're saying is," Stan soldiers on, "you can't stand my shoes."

"No, _no_. I think you don't understand what I'm saying here," I reply, adding after a moment, "is, um, what I'm saying."

"But you _implied_," he says, making a wild gesture as he says the word, "that you can't stand them. Really it's just as good as saying it. It's called body language, Kyle." And, I think to myself, it is called his odd and slightly unnerving ability to know what I mean when I say something else.

"You don't seem to get the basic concepts of communication," I explain. "When someone says something, that's what they say. And all I said, all I asked, really, was when you got your shoes. You are the one who jumped to the conclusion that I can't stand your shoes. I never said that. Maybe you're using a defense mechanism. Maybe you can't stand your shoes, but you don't want to admit it."

"Excuse me," Stan says, in this bitchy way that he has whenever he feels that he is right and I am so, so, very wrong. "But who is in Psych right now? I believe that I am in Psych right now and that you switched out of it - when, need I remind you, we could have had a class together. And I am not using defense mechanisms. I love my shoes. You hate my shoes, go ahead and say it."

"I never said - " I begin, harshly.

"I realize that, but I also know you hate my shoes," he informs me. "So just go ahead and say it, I'm not mad."

To some this might seem like something that could amicably end our little argument. I could just tell him the truth, that I hate his fucking ugly shoes, he won't be mad about it, and we can go back to a rousing afternoon of Trigonometry. But, have you forgotten? Stan is subtle. He may be saying he won't get mad, but he will stay mad internally for ages until he snaps and kills me when we're in our mid-forties. Also, if I give in and just say it, he will have won.

"I don't hate your shoes," I lie, giving him a 'look.' "Certainly I don't like them either. But as much as I don't like them, if you like them, I don't care. I was just asking when you had gotten them out of pure interest; you are the one who turned it into me hating your shoes."

Stan sputters indignantly. Or something like that. "Well," he says, calculatingly, "my last boyfriend was taller than you."

"Your last 'boyfriend,'" I tell him, complete with air quotes and everything, "was Wendy. And that's only when she's wearing heels, so that's totally irrele-vmph." The 'vmph' indicates the point at which Stan pretty much attacked me. No, not violently. This is the part where someone might wonder about our sanity, because somehow we ended up making out.

I don't get it either.

And that's what I realized after two years of dating Stan. No one will ever get it. Us. I won't. He won't. No one else ever will, that's for sure. I'm not sure anyone is supposed to. We can go from fighting to making out in 0.3 seconds. Which, incidentally, is the same amount of time that it takes a Colombian Death Squad to kill somebody.

**xxx**

When someone knocks on the door to my office, I think it's either Christophe or a teacher who is going to yell at me for being in their classroom. I am so horribly wrong. You see, some people, you have to be _ready_ to see. Or in this case, two people. Separate they are hardly a threat to me, but when they're together, I sometimes feel the strong urge to kill people, even small children if I'm given the chance. They drive me insane.

They are one of those couples that, despite having only been together for a few months, think that they know everything about relationships. So they give you advice, thinking, someday, you will thank them endlessly. Mostly, I just want to punch them. I mean, I expected as much from Craig, even he wouldn't argue if you called him a douche bag, but honestly, even though all Tweek really does is agree with what he says, he pisses me off even more.

"Hello, Kyle!" Craig says. His voice implies that he is happy to see me and that I am one of his closest and most trusted friends. Take this time to remember the conversation we had about people pretending to be nice to get things. Right. Think back on it and let us reuse that knowledge, as you will often have to, on Craig. He is possibly the greatest perpetrator of such acts in the greater Denver area. Perhaps in all of Colorado, I don't know. "You wouldn't mind if we used some of the computers in here, would you?"

I look around and quickly realize I can't exactly say no. I am surrounded by twenty-nine computers that are doing little more than projecting the icon of a popular computer system named after a common household item on their screensavers. If I say, 'No, Craig, go away,' I will forever be labeled an asshole by him and he'll avoid me.

"No, Craig, go away," I say.

"B-but," Tweek says, quietly from beside Craig, "no one's using them. And I have a p-paper due in class in an hour." He looks at Craig and Craig nods reassuringly. "And, um, gah, Kyle, y-you shouldn't be such a douche just because - nnh - just because th-things aren't going well for you."

"Fucking...fine. Use one of the computers then," I say, shaking my head. Tweek is happy enough with that, but naturally Craig doesn't have any homework to do or papers to write. Well, he probably does, but then, he also doesn't give a fuck, so.

"How's Tom?" he asks, blithely sitting in the chair next to me. Now, you might be saying to yourself, 'Tom? Who's Tom? _I_ don't remember a Tom.' And right you are. He's not actually talking about anyone named Tom, he's referring to Stan and something I told him a few weeks ago. I'm sorry to say that Craig is one of those people who you feel compelled to tell things to when you just _have _to tell someone. This is pretty much because Craig doesn't have anyone to tell things to, at least no one who will really believe him. The problem is, Craig also is the type of person who will torment you with whatever you told him - for just about forever. For example, let's talk about the Tom thing.

For some reason I was watching _Mission Impossible_. I can't say why, I don't have an excuse for you, but the sad truth is that I was watching it. And while I was watching it I felt a very unsettling feeling. Almost like déjà vu, except a lot more profound. It was especially profound during the times that Tom Cruise was doing whatever Tom Cruise does - infiltrating or joining cults probably, I don't know. But he would be in a ventilation shaft and then start relaying what he was doing over his little radio and I would feel like - like I _knew _that, I had seen that before in some instance that wasn't a movie.

It was as if I _knew_ someone - ah. The realization made my left arm freeze, halting the journey of whatever I was drinking at the time. The sudden revelation was just that intense. I said to myself, startled, "Oh my god, my boyfriend is Tom Cruise from _Mission Impossible_." I could hear it happening in my head.

"Stan, your mission, should choose to accept it, is to say out loud whatever you are doing at the moment as though there is someone who is listening in and they want to know. Very possibly some sort of alien mothership or perhaps a very bored government worker who is playing around with the various wire taps that are in your apartment - yes, they _are_ there."

I kid you not, Stan will, let's say, be boiling water. It's his specialty when it comes to cooking. You can really trust him to not burn it or anything. So, sitting in the living room, minding my own business I am subject to his mumbling diatribe. "Alright, I need...two cups. Got two cups of water, alright. Just have to get the pot and set that on the stove. There. Then put the water in. Now, what does this say? Set the stove to 350...got...that. Right. Now where are some scissors?"

My immediate thought is always: _Who is he talking to? _Because I know it's not me. I can see what he's doing and I know how to do it better, if you'll excuse me for saying so. And besides, half the time I'm not even in the room with him. Hell, half of the time no one is in the room with him. So it begs the question of everyone, who is Stan talking to? Is it even important? And should I just leave it alone and chalk up to one of those quirks that I'm going to have to suffer through for the rest of my life?

Well, whatever the case, I couldn't exactly keep it to myself. And I wasn't going to tell Stan he was like Tom Cruise, movie role or no, he's _always _had a problem with Tom Cruise since, well, you know. He doesn't like me to talk about it. And I wasn't about to tell Wendy or Kenny, because they would just act like it was no big deal, but by the next day everyone and Bebe's mother would know about it. So, well, you know, Craig.

"He's fine," I say with a shrug. We sit there in silence for a moment until I can't stand it and I feel like my head is going to blow up. "Well, actually," I start, pushing the keyboard away from me and turning to face him, "we got into the dumbest fight last night. I mean the stupidest thing. It all started with me not picking up coffee, right? And I was like, 'sorry, Stan, but I had a lot going on at work, I forgot.' And I did, that wasn't even a lie."

"Yeah?" Craig says, serenely. "Did someone hack the systems again and block everything except for porn?"

"No," I say, contentedly, "no that, at least, did not happen. What _did_ happen was that I found out I have to work with some guy from the French mafia for the rest of, like, the month or something. I mean, I walk into work and my boss is just like, oh yeah, TSR used to do that, but you'll just deal with it now, saying how he's sure I know what the fuck the _Unione Corse _is. That kind of distracted me the rest of the day, you know?"

"I can see that, yeah," he says, thoughtfully. "You know, and Stan should appreciate that you have to put up with shit like that around here. The French mafia though. I didn't even know they had one. Are you sure your boss isn't just making it up or something?"

"Nope, I looked it up on Wikipedia," I tell him. He shrugs, like, well, that settles that, then. "The thing is, I started to tell Stan about it too. And it turns out, the guy who's here from the French mafia is actually someone we knew as kids. I don't think you knew him."

"No, yeah, I don't think I did," he agrees. "I, mean, I think I would remember a French kid. But all I remember are those two annoying British kids, remember them?"

"Yes, I...remember them," I say, my voice strained. "Look, back to my point. I give _no _reason to indicate what Stan assumes, all right?" I pause. "All right?" I repeat and Craig nods, slowly. "So I'm just telling him, you know, how odd it is that it's the guy we used to know when we were, like, eight years old. And he just assumes that I _like _him. What is that?"

"That, my friend," Craig says, somberly, "is insecurity. Sad, but true, he's just worried. How long have you guys been together?" I make kind of weird noise while I try to think and finally shrug. "Exactly, it's been a while. And you guys fight a lot. And he probably figures you guys are just about done, right? Did you even ever date anyone before him, Kyle?"

"Well," I say. "Well, I went to junior prom with Bebe."

"Yeah, because Kenny was going with Porsche and there was no one else for her to go with at the time," Craig reminds me. He didn't really have to be that brutal. I frown to myself, but pretend him pointing that out doesn't bother me one bit. "Face facts, you know it and Stan knows it. You've never gone out with anyone besides him and he's only ever been in doomed to fail relationships. You two are like a train wreck. Only with a lot less metal and destruction. Or maybe more destruction, I don't know. But you get what I'm saying right?"

"I guess so," I reply in a monotone.

"Oh, Kyle, don't get all depressed about it," he says to me with a smile. Only Craig could smile when he knows someone is feeling the way I am. "It's only been, what? Four, five years? That's not even _that_ much time if you put in perspective."

"Craig, I'm not even twenty-two yet, _three_ years would be, like a seventh of my life so far. And, if we're being honest," I say, with a sigh, "can you really count any time _before _you move out of your parents' house as living?" And, let me tell you, when your mother is...my mother, this is completely true. So completely true, in fact that my mom cried when I got my driver's license - at eighteen, because she refused to let me get it any earlier. Yeah. _Yeah_.

"Oh, I see what you're saying," Craig says. Horror dawns on his face. "Dude, then, in theory, you've never _not _been dating Stan."

There's a moment of silence. In memorial, I'm sure, of my optimism - whatever tiny, defeated bit of it was still hiding up there in the recesses of mind - because it's just died an untimely death.

**xxx**

I make it back from lunch with Kenny and Wendy unscathed. For the most part I spent time figuring out how many pieces I could tear one napkin up into, while they discussed Kenny's Canadian/non-existent girlfriend and his plans to propose to her. Bebe will be calling me in a few nights to ask me if it's true, she will be sobbing into the phone and I will feel a tiny pang of pity, but then I will remember junior prom, and I will say: 'Yes, Bebe, yes, Kenny is marrying Ike's half-sister and your new highlights look terrible in your hair!'

When I'm the most empathetic one in my group of friends, you _know _something is wrong.

Anyway, happily enough, it is Christophe and not my boss who is in my office when I get back. Sadly enough, Christophe is in my office. "Ah, shit," I say, "I forgot." And I did, I'm not lying. Stan would have you think otherwise, but I haven't thought about Christophe except for in relation to the fight I had with Stan last night. See, and Stan _should_ getthat. I'm more worried about him - the bastard - than about figuring out how to do something for the French fucking mafia. Stan should get that and be very pleased with himself. But does he? No. And is he? Oh yes, but not for that reason. But, I digress. Christophe goes to say something to me, but he's cut off by yet another visitor to my office.

For the same reason that I am not going to refer to my boss by his name, I will not refer to this man by his name. He will simply be known as 'the contractor.' Not a contractor, _the _contractor. The one who will, as far as my boss has said, dispose of murder evidence for me if I ask politely. Needless to say, he looks like your stereotypical contractor. I'm not sure what that is to be honest, so I invite you to make up your own little idea of what he looks like, because I sure as hell don't care enough about him to tell you. Besides, he's been on the news with my boss for the past week or so, you've seen him.

"Are you Kyle - " he begins to say. And then he stops and for a minute I'm ready to tell him it's not a big deal, no one can say it for some reason or another, for Christophe it's his accent, for him it's...intelligence, something like that. Instead he's looking at Christophe like he's some sort of mutated being from outer space that's come to give us all an alien plague. Which would make an interesting movie, if you think about it. But, well.

"Yes, I am," I say, authoritatively. "Don't mind him, that's just one of the French students, he doesn't speak English at all so they've stuck him with me."

"You speak French?" he asks me, squinting in my general direction. Ah, he's one of _those_.

"No, sir," I say, firmly. "That's the truly confusing part. I wouldn't want to speak French if my life depending on it and yet, here I am."

"Can't complain if they're paying, can you?" the contractor says decisively with a laugh

You may be confused right now. You may be saying, 'Kyle, what would possess you to say Christophe doesn't speak English? He does, he just sounds really weird and can't say 'th' sounds. There's no point to all of this Kyle.' No, no there is not. But that's the thing about me, I'm such a free-spirit, I'm just having fun. No, that's a complete lie, I can't fool you people, I know I can't. Really, I just don't want Christophe saying anything and I don't want the contractor to get all weird and not tell me everything.

Plus, okay, it is kind of fun. Especially since, as I said, the contractor is one of _those_. You know what I mean. Right now I'm in the clear with him, because I told him I would never dream of speaking French. But if he knew that I was dating someone who's full name is Stanley, I would not be in the clear. Ah, yes, I repeat, he's one of _those_.

I respond with, "No sir, I suppose I can't," with a fake smile akin to the ones you see on black and white sitcoms.

"Well, alright," he says, glancing over and Christophe, who's tapping idly at the arm of the chair he's sitting in. "He doesn't know English at all?"

"None," I tell him, looking at Christophe and widening my eyes. He looks up at the ceiling and mouths something, probably in French, the douche bag. "No offense, sir, but I can't imagine what you would want to talk to me about. Much less what you would want to talk to me about that can't be heard by someone else. You know I'm a student here, technically, not just an employee, right?"

"Oh, I know," he says. "But TSR isn't here, so what am I to do?" I had no idea anyone relied on TSR this much. Before TSR left I was under the impression that he was a bit of a joke, now it seems like he was god's gift to man and I'm the new one. "He was the one who gave us the orders when we first got this job, back in November of last year when we came out to speculate the land. But since he's gone and you're his replacement I just have to make sure some of the specific instructions are alright with you."

Fuck, I'm too young for this, really, I am.

"Shoot, sir," I say. And if you have a good memory, you might just know why.

"Alright," he says, glancing over at Christophe once more. "No English you're sure?" I stare at him. "Okay, fine. Look, when we did the land speculation we found that there's a chance, not for sure, but a chance that where the building is going...there's, you know, a burial ground there."

There is a long, long, long, long, long silence.

"You know, like in that one movie," he says, looking ready to explain the whole thing to me.

"No, I know," I say, short of breath. "I...know. I just. What, like, an Indian burial ground?" He nods, genially, as if we're discussing our favorite television shows. "Okay, and you're still going to build a building there?"

"Well, yeah," he tells me, gruffly, his chest puffing up - not unlike, I may add, that pufferfish from _Finding Nemo_. I loved that fish, he was funny, if I was a fish I'd probably be friends with him and be around him all the time. Being around the contractor, in contrast, is only marginally better than being poked in the eye with a stick. "It's not like we haven't dealt with things like this before. A lot of these areas are rumored to be burial sites, doesn't mean it's true. And if it is, well, TSR told us what to do."

"He told you to stop?" I ask hopelessly. Because TSR would not tell them to stop, he wouldn't even see why that would be a good choice.

"No, kid, he told us to dispose of the bodies," the contractor says, and I can tell I am beginning to slip out of the clear. "We aren't going to stop. Then everyone and their brother is going to be out here. News crews, journalists - fucking journalists, kid. Liberals'll be up in arms because we're defiling the sacred land that they didn't care about yesterday and conservatives'll pissed because we're using their money to do it. Think, kid."

I do, and yet, it still seems to me that stopping would be much better than getting _caught_.

"I'm thinking," I say to the impatient look on his face. "I just, I don't know, what if the police find out? You won't, I mean - "

Christophe snorts from across the room and we both look at him. He coughs unconvincingly and I contemplate murder. Then they'll definitely find a body when they start digging, only it won't be a fucking Indian body, believe me.

"If what you're asking," the contractor says in a low voice, interrupting my train of thought, "is if we'll say you authorized it, no. We'll say TSR did, say it was worked out long before you had this position, act like TSR must have known something, but we didn't. The man's already on the run for something, it's not going to hurt him much to add this to his record."

After a few more moments of dialogue that I barely remember, the contractor leaves, looking thoroughly happy with himself. I, on the other hand, feel about as good as a baby cow waiting to be slaughtered - only worse because Stan wouldn't even care if I was made into veal. Christophe looks thoroughly amused.

"Shut up and follow me," I hiss at him.

Surprisingly, Christophe actually follows me. As pleased as I am with this fact I'm slightly more focused on the whole possibility of dead bodies and them being hidden and that I know about it. But, you know, the French mafia is a close second.

"Oh, hey, they took down the police tape," I say, mostly for my own benefit, once we reach TSR's office. Inside it's like an OCD warzone. Everything is immaculate in the creepiest and most threatening way possible, especially knowing that TSR so would not have stood for this level of cleanliness. "Oh, don't...touch anything," I warn Christophe, "just a precaution."

He shrugs and sits down at TSR's desk.

"If I were a lesser man," I let him know, solemnly, "you would be dead right now."

"And if you were a greater man," he retorts, "people would not refer to you as 'kid,' now would zey?" He is blissfully unaware of his imminent death caused by my suffocating hatred for him. "Now, if you would, zen, tell me what we are doing in 'ere?"

"I would like nothing more than to tell you," I respond with a tight smile. "This is TSR's office, you are sitting in TSR's chair and TSR will murder you when he finds out. And he will find out, the man is a fucking psychic when it comes to that chair. I don't question it. Anyway, I figured before you got killed we could do what we're supposed to do, which is figuring out...what we're supposed to do."

Unfazed, Christophe says, "'ow are we going to be doing zat?"

"Duh, TSR's files," I explain, walking over to the filing cabinets. There are two of them. There were three, but I guess the third had evidence. Or the police just wanted to do something official looking and took the filing cabinet despite knowing it held nothing valuable towards their case in any way. Whatever the case, I still know there's going to be more than enough to go through. I open the top drawer of one of them tentatively. "Somewhere in here," I say, to an old styrofoam coffee cup, several duotang folders and a large book that boasts about its assortment of duck photography, "is some explanation of why the fuck I am being forced to put up with you."

"I'm dying of excitement," Christophe drones, his voice - and this might be an exaggeration, but if it is one, it's not for lack of comparison - sarcastic as humanly possible.

"You'll be dying of something soon," I mutter, grabbing a pile of official looking folders that are probably full of old newspaper clippings relating to cats, and dropping them on the desk. Somewhere, wherever he is, TSR is getting the odd feeling that he needs to kill someone. Or someone else. Innocent until proven guilty, you know.

We're about halfway through the folders when my phone rings. Considering, so far, stat sheets of all the hockey teams in the western conference and several thousand (I am not kidding) receipts from Tim Horton's have been the most interesting finds, I figure we probably aren't going to be breaking ground any time soon, so I answer my phone.

Now, Wendy has pointed this out to me several times. Most people, when around other people, do not just 'answer their phone.' They check and see who it is and, almost always, leave the room to talk to them. Maybe that's a girl thing. Maybe it's a normal person thing. But I am Kyle Broflovski and if I know one thing...or two things, it's that I am not a girl and I have never had a hope of being a normal person. So, to Wendy's chagrin, and possibly yours, I simply answer my phone with no thought or worry in my mind as to who it is or what we might talk about. Never mind Christophe, I've been ignoring him for the past half an hour, I can continue on in that vein easy.

Naturally, it's Stan.

"You're picking me up right?" he says, his voice slightly nervous.

"Nope," I say, briskly, "you're just going to have to walk twenty miles back to the apartment. If you freeze, we'll have a nice funeral. I might even give a eulogy."

"Ha," he says, his tone flat. "I'm just making sure, okay? You've been known to stay angry and do really dumb things when you're angry. Just, sometimes."

"When have I ever done something dumb when I was angry?" I ask indignantly. I dare him to be able to give me one example - one.

"Maybe the time you didn't pick me up from work and one of my students had to drive me home?" he replies, with pseudo-innocence.

"That was one time, and my car broke down!" I cry. Christophe is feigning interest in a photo album he's pulled out of the drawer of the filing cabinet. I grab it away from him because he's annoying the hell out of me. If he's going to eavesdrop he might as well just do it. For a soon-to-be member of the French mafia he sucks at doing things secretly.

"Kyle, would you just listen to me?" Stan hisses on the other end of the line. "No, not you Kyle. Can't you see I'm on the phone?" For a moment I'm utterly confused. Yes I know he's on the phone, but I can't see it. What the hell - oh. That fucking bastard.

"You're teaching right now?" I ask, although it's less of a question and more of me letting him know I'm really pissed off in the form of a question.

"No I'm not teaching," he replies, sounding wounded. "I gave them something to do and then called you while they were working it. Well, while they are working on it, seeing as they're working on it presently. Except for Kyle, stupid douche bag kid, always gets done before everyone else. He reminds me of you in some ways."

"Does he now, Stan?" I ask, drily.

"Not completely, of course," he tells me in a way that's eerily not unlike Wendy when she's heard something far too interesting to keep to herself. "But he has the same color hair as you. And I have it in his record that he's a Jew. Oh - is that - oh, that makes sense. He says he's not really a Jew, just his mom was." There's a pause in which I can hear muffled talking and in which I'm trying to figure out what the ramifications would be if I didn't pick him up. "Another similarity! Seems his mom is a bitch."

"Cute," I say, smiling to myself. "Don't forget we're going to see my bitchy mom tonight then. Better not tell her about your little affair, you know how she tends to worry."

We do not go 'no you hang up,' back and forth, though we did have those days, and I'll tell you about them later. I just reassure Stan three times that I will pick him up and confirm that he can murder me in my sleep if I don't, no problem and then we're done. I hang up the phone and look at the photo album in my hands.

"Weird," I say, "not one of these pictures seems to be of TSR." I then realize that Christophe is smirking at me. Smirking in the way that only a very practiced smirker can smirk. It's fills me with discontent, quite honestly. "What?" I ask, my voice definitely not getting any higher pitched, no matter what anyone has to say about that tendency when I get anxious. "What are you looking at me for?"

"I remember Stan," he says, with a stupid grin that makes me want to stab him a few hundred times.

"No you don't, don't lie to me," I order him, looking at the photo album blindly, to avoid meeting his stupid all-knowing eyes.

"Yes I do, I remember 'im," he repeats. "Believe me, zere's no way I could forget your little boyfriend."

"Christophe, we were eight," I say, blandly. "We didn't even know you had that choice in your sexuality until we were, like...nine. Or at least we didn't know...something. Whatever. My point is we weren't dating. Then. We weren't."

"Zen you weren't, oui. But now et seems zat you are, zen, hmm?" Christophe says, his eyes sparkling...like something that sparkles. Fuck. He's so...stupid. Everything about him. Stupid. Fuck.

"I hate you right now," I let him now, throwing the photo album down on the desk and getting up to grab whatever's left in that top drawer, which turns out to be a postcard with Marilyn Monroe on it and a few cassettes that look like they haven't been so much as thought about in the last half-century.

"I know," Christophe tells me when I get back to the desk. He doesn't even look at the stuff when I throw it down, but I honestly can't blame him. "I wouldn't 'ave expected anyzing else from you." I sit down across from him again and we sit in companionable silence. By which I mean, Christophe is perfectly content and I have the urge to maybe kill a few small animals. Maybe just animals, skip the small part.

"Something's bothering me," I say, slowly.

"What?" he asks, quickly. "If it's that we haven't found anything yet - I'm sure it's in his stuff somewhere."

"No, no," I say, shaking my head. "It's not that. Not really. It's just...yeah, TSR is insane. And yeah," I nod towards the pile of useless shit on the desk, "he's not exactly organized. But he's not completely retarded or anything. I just find it weird that there's nothing about this to be found anywhere. He always kept notes on everything, actually. He forgot shit, easy, man. He's just weird enough to have written down all his dealings with the French mafia just so he wouldn't forget about it."

"Zat - zat makes sense I guess," Christophe falters slightly, looking down at the floor. "Does zat mean et's in 'ere definitely, zen? I mean, do you zink we'll be finding et any time soon, if zat's ze case?" I stare at him for a long moment, confused by the fact that he sounds really - nervous. Admittedly, even though I've known him since I was eight, I haven't known him for long. But still, Christophe just doesn't seem the nervous-type. Stuttering is all that draws a line between him and Tweek right now, I swear.

"Um, maybe?" I say, tentatively, raising an eyebrow at him. "You alright?"

"I am...I am _fine_," he says with conviction and then he starts putting the Tim Horton's receipts in chronological order.

French people man, I'm telling you.

**xxx**

"Oh god, you made it here without dying," my mother says, clutching onto the front door. Stan, beside me, groans internally, believe me, I know these things. "That thing you drive in a death trap," she continues, "I told you, bubbe, I did, I would give you money to buy a car that wasn't going to blow up, but you told me you could handle it on your own."

"Mom, it's not a Pinto, Christ," I say, pushing past her and into the house.

Anyone who knows anything about my mom knows she's probably one of the most annoying things to walk this earth. Of course, no one besides me and Ike knows what it's like to have her as a mother. The problem is that, while everyone else thinks she's a terrible busybody about everything else in the world, they aren't subject to her running commentary on their lives.

"I'm just looking out for you," my mom says, in that voice that means she might or might not be planning world domination after dinner. "Stanley, darling, I'm glad you could make it. You've been sick the last few times, you aren't feeling sick now are you? Because I always told Sharon that she needs to look out for her children's health more."

"I'm glad to see you too," Stan says with a small smile. He knows what my mom really means is that she was worried about him and wanted to make sure he was healthy. Well, that's what he assumes, at least. I won't tell him otherwise, it's cute how he thinks my mom isn't a coldstone bitch all the time. I love my mom and all but, fuck, she means what she says, there's no hidden message there.

My younger brother is sitting in the living room, staring at the television. Most fifteen year olds survive on television shows that are hosted by obnoxious people in trucker hats and music that sounds like an animal being gutted. Ike probably wouldn't even get those references. He's watching MSNBC with a look of intense conversation. I have it on good authority that he complained that Beethoven wasn't played at his high school's homecoming. I'm not sure if I should be proud to have a little brother who's that smart. Mostly I just feel like he sold his social life to the devil in order to be intelligent. And if he did...he probably doesn't regret it at all.

"Hey," I say, squinting at the forty-something news anchor who's talking about the economy or something.

"Shh," he says, "they're just getting to the good part." I look at the television again. They're discussing tax breaks.

"Ah, riveting." Ike glares at me and I just smile serenely. Finally he just goes back to glaring at the upper class tax cuts that are apparently ruining our country according to the democratic bias. "How's it knowing you'll be a senior next year?" I ask, sitting down next to him. My mom and Stan walk by into the kitchen, my mom saying something about if I'm eating well enough and Stan grinning at me evilly.

"It kind of really sucks," Ike says to the television. "I can't even drive yet and I'm taking the ACTs in a few weeks. Naturally I'll get a perfect score, but I'd like to be able to drive, you know?"

"That's optimistic of you," replies the older brother who got a 23 on his ACTs. I'm not a good test taker, so sue me. "Look at the bright side, if you want you can totally put college off for two years and you'll definitely end up getting a scholarship to somewhere. So you, at least, won't have to work in the libra - Learning Center at your university just to begin paying back student loans."

"I know all that," Ike responds with a snort, looking over at me as a commercial break starts. "I'm not worried about school or anything. It's - do you think a girl would go to prom with me knowing that I can't drive? I mean," he continues when I know I look ready to say 'uhh,' "someone who's my age, she's a sophomore, she can't drive either. I'm friends with her. I just want to know if she's going to think that me being...me will make going to prom...stupid."

"Are you as much of a nerd around her as you are around everyone else?" I ask, delicately. Ike throws the remote at me. Thank the lord he sucks at anything athletic, so it sails over my head and hits the wall. "I was just kidding, calm the temper. What I meant to say was that, if she likes you she won't give a fuck. If she doesn't like you...she'll probably go anyway because it's prom and girls live for prom. They _breathe_ for prom. It's possible that they even sleep for prom, in every way that that implies."

"So basically, I just have to get the balls to ask her and she'll almost definitely say yes," he recounts, clearly calculating the probabilities in his mind, "but that doesn't even mean she likes me?"

I nod. "Isn't high school awesome?"

"What?" I hear my mom yell in the kitchen. "Kyle Broflovski," she shrieks, emerging into the living room, "is it true that you don't eat breakfast?" I breathe and she takes that as affirmation. "People die from not eating breakfast, bubbe! Are you acting out? Do you want people to notice something? You know you can tell me - Ike you've been watching television since you got home, don't you have homework to do?"

"Mom," Ike says, shaking his head, "the hardest class I have this term is Calc. You freak out way too easily."

"Well, alright," she concedes. Stan waves at me from the doorway. I send silent murderous death rays at him, he just shrugs. "Now, bubbe," my mother simpers, "dinner will be done in a little while and if you don't take seconds and let me force you to have thirds, Stan has promised to not buy you alcohol for a month."

"Agh, mom, just because Bebe told you I got drunk at her graduation party doesn't mean I'm an alcoholic," I remind her. She just makes a small disbelieving noise in the back of her throat and leaves the room.

"Have I ever told you how much I love your family?" Stan asks.

"And we love you," Ike says happily.

Forty-five minutes later my whole family, plus Stan, is sitting at the table. Stan is being charming as usual; he's such a douche bag in that way. I'm looking my food but not really eating it. My mom probably drugged it with something that will make me gain weight or lose some depending on her mood. My dad is pretending he's deaf to anything females say. Ike is, as far as I can guess, calculating the cubic measurements of all of the food on his plate, his idea of fun.

"Stan told me you got a promotion at work," my mom says, calmly. "That was nice to hear. It would have been nicer to hear it from you, Kyle."

"I only got promoted because the guy who had my job before is wanted for murder," I tell her.

"Well that's no reason to not tell me about it," she responds, "now eat something." Yes, my mother, not even mentions of murder faze her. Perhaps that should tell me something, but I'm not really paying attention. Stan is talking to Ike about something or another and, I'm sorry, but it's terribly adorable of him. Oh, he would kill me if he knew I thought that or, god forbid, if I told him that. But I can secretly think that. Very secretly, so secret that sometimes I don't even know I think that.

"And that's why it always pays to have some tic tacs with you," he finishes saying. Adding, after a moment of thought, "Though, it pays to know if she likes mint or not. Kyle hates mint with a passion. A safe call is the orange ones. No one can resist the orange ones. I think they put heroin in the orange ones."

"Heroin?" my dad says, confused.

"There's heroin in your carrots, dad," I let him know. "It's mom's way of making you eat her food for the rest of your life." My dad considers this for a moment and then happily continues eating. I would say he's whipped but, well, he's my dad and that's kind of a disturbing image.

"Bubbe, if I was putting heroin in the food I think you would come home to visit more often," my mother says, taking a sip of her water and looking completely serious, as if she's just made a valid point that any other self-respecting mother would have made. "As it is you barely call. What do you do in your new job? It's still in the library, right?" My mom cannot understand the concept of a Learning Center, she refuses to. I respect her, a little bit, for that.

"Well," I say, blinking a few times for effect, "it's all pretty much the same as what I was doing. Only now I'm working with the French mafia on their student and drug exchanging with the university. Also we might be digging up an Indian burial ground, but it's not much of a worry. The contractor's going to hide the bodies if it comes down to it. And, you know, looking through TSR's stuff for anything that might convict him of murder. Nothing really exciting."

"I hope you got a pay raise for that, Kyle," my dad says, solemnly. My mother nods in furtive agreement. Ike's look plainly says 'you are the worst, most obvious liar in the world' - and, oh, I wish I was. Stan, however, seems to be trying to cause me to spontaneously combust. He knows when I'm lying, he doesn't let me get away with it. But he also doesn't like me to lie by omission, and though I told him about the whole French mafia thing, he knows nothing about burial grounds or murder suspects and he is not happy, not at all.

**xxx**

"So," Stan says, decidedly. "I am driving the car. You have some sort of weird compulsion where you can't be sitting in the passenger's seat and be quiet at the same time. I am a phenomenal listener at all times, as we are all well aware. And, so," he says, grinning at me, "I think that the obvious reasoning here is that you should tell me what the fuck is going on completely, hmm?"

"Stan," is all I say.

"Kyle," he replies and, for a few seconds I think that's all he's going to say, "if you don't...want to tell me you don't have to. I feel like today and yesterday have just been us bitching at each other. Way I see it, you can either go ahead and tell me or you get used to not feeling comfortable eating or drinking anything that I hand you."

"You're diplomatic," I mutter.

"I try," he says, but for all the sarcasm his words imply, he just sounds concerned. Fuck him for being such a caring jerk.

"Fine," I say, finally, crossing my arms and leaning back against the seat as we pull onto the highway. "You don't even know...I have no idea what's going on. I don't...know. My boss, TSR, the one who I told you was almost as psychotic as Cartman? Yeah, I wasn't kidding when I said he's wanted for murder. Or at least I don't think I am, that's what everyone's saying. And then my boss comes and tells me that, hey, if, while I'm looking through TSR's files for information about how to handle this whole French mafia deal, I happen upon some sort of incriminating evidence, I should just give it to the contractor. The contractor being the one who came and told me, today, that if the cops catch him dumping bodies that may or may not be buried where they're putting a new building, he won't say I had anything to do with it. But...but, fuck, Stan."

"Your conscious hates you because even if he doesn't tell you'll know you had something to do with it," Stan says with a sigh. Anyone else would have asked me to repeat myself, but Stan's used to me blathering on about whatever it is that's going on, even if I convey it all in rushed run-on sentences. Not to mention that he's so totally right. Even if all of this shit goes on, illegal but happening without getting caught, I'm going to be that one stupid person who can't handle my conscious.

"Nnh," I say, quietly. "Dude, I really, really can't keep doing this. It's not worth the minimum wage. Speaking of which. You gave Kenny half the money you made yesterday? Half, really?"

Stan groans. "Kyle, he needed the money, I usually don't pay him at all since he gets free food and does nothing when he comes over."

"I'm not denying he needed the money," I state, clearly, just in case his brain is listening while he, himself, is so obviously not, "the thing is: there's one Kenny. And he can get money from Wendy, who, need I remind you, lives in a studio apartment her parents pay for. He can get money from a lot of people. He's one person. We however, are two people. Maybe you like to think of me as some masturbatory vision or something, but as it turns, I'm actually not. So we, together, need more money than Kenny, singular."

There's a short pause. "You're not a masturbatory vision?" Stan is very lucky that I'm tired and disgruntled, because if I wasn't he would have a black eye. At least, that's what I tell myself. "I kid, I kid," he says, grinning. "Look, Kenny said he'd pay me back and I knew he was lying because, really, Kenny paying me back? Yeah, sure. But I was kind of pissed at you for the whole keys thing so I just gave him half the money without thinking."

I grumble something so incoherent under my breath that even I have no idea what I'm really trying to say. When I really think about it, I don't think I'm trying to say anything at all.

"Yes, well, I love you too, babe," Stan says in a mocking and yet, somehow, seductive voice.

"I don't think that's what I was trying to say," I reply as he pulls into our parking spot next to our apartment building.

"Aw, but, Kyle," he says, turning to smile at me after he turns off the car, "I know that's what you meant."

Remember the significance of 0.3 seconds in our relationship? Yeah, well, remember it again.

**xxx**

I should probably make good on that promise now. You know, to tell you about when Stan and I were all 'no you hang up first.' Looking back on it, I'm mortified. I want to die and come back to life and die again and then haunt myself in the past and tell myself to stop being such a little pussy fag. You ever have that feeling? Like if you had only known then how retarded you were acting, you so would have stopped.

But I can't go back in time, at least I don't think I can without messing up the fabric of the universe, so I have to look back and cringe. See, but at least this leads to our first fight and subsequent break up as well. That's something I can get into.

For the first three or so weeks of dating we were, by common consensus, cute and oh so totally predictable. In other words, we were Ross and Rachel. JD and Eliot. Other cliché cutesy couples on sitcoms. Stan was very: 'hello everyone, Kyle is my boyfriend!' I was very: 'yes, now let me do my homework, we have class in five minutes, asshole.' Yes, we were the epitome the romantic couple everyone hopes to someday be a part of it.

And then who else but Porsche Saturn had to ruin it.

Now, I would not venture to call myself OCD. Other people would. Stan definitely would. But I wouldn't. Still, there is one thing that bothers me to no end. Imagine this: I'm sitting in English class taking a test. English isn't my best subject, I'll be honest about that, but I was doing pretty well. Especially since Stan was sitting next to me and he might have been putting his test really close to the edge of his desk so that maybe I was able to see his answers. No one can prove that, though.

What bothered me wasn't so much that Porsche sat in front of me. It wasn't even that she often found it prudent to turn around and ask me if I found things 'awesome.' Like, didn't I think it was 'awesome' how people could talk, because animals couldn't talk, no animals could talk, none at all. Stuff like that that just made me smile weakly because I had no idea how to respond. Yeah, that wasn't fun. But that wasn't what bothered me about her, not really.

It was her hair.

Fuck man, I'm just sitting there doing my English test, minding my own business, and then her hair is on my desk. I mean, not just, like, her hair. It was just, she had kind of swept it over her shoulder and the very bottom of it was touching desk. My desk. Not her desk. Her hair. But _my_ desk.

I pretty much freeze in the middle of bubbling D all of the above as my answer, right? The only thing I can think to do is push my scantron towards her hair in the hopes that she'll realize her grave error and correct it. No. Fucking. Cigar. In fact, she leans back in her chair so even more of it is touching my desk. The glare I give the back of her head would stop global warming in its tracks, but she doesn't so much as notice.

Stan does, however, and he kicks me with his dumb red, ratty, Converse and gives me a look that's like 'what are you doing?' And so I make a sort of wild gesture at Porsche's hair and Stan just stares at me for a long moment and then kicks me again, at which point I hiss, rather loudly, "Stop doing that."

You might be, at this point, pinching the bridge of your nose in a way not unlike my boyfriend was at the time. Somehow I had forgotten we were in the middle of a test. And, of course, when our teacher saw that I - someone who was not super awesome at English - was talking to my boyfriend - who was super awesome at English - well, he assumed things, and I don't really blame him. We both failed the test, Stan got pissed because of that and the fact that he thought I had an unhealthy preoccupation with Porsche Saturn's hair and I got pissed because the world was playing a cruel joke on me.

We weren't the seasoned veterans of fighting then that we are now. But I would say we had a pretty decent fight, especially since it managed to go on through lunch and end in the hallway when Stan threw his calculator at me - his graphing calculator kids, those things hurt - and I tried valiantly to punch him, but instead punched a locker two feet away from him. In my defense, I've always had poor hand-eye coordination.

Thinking back on it now, I can kind of see why we fight all the time. As best friends, we were like most guys. Honestly, yeah, we fought sometimes over stupid stuff, but mostly we either didn't think much of it or we made it into a huge deal that was eventually resolved because we got bored of sitting around playing Gamesphere or hanging out with Kenny. We weren't really that involved with our own fighting, emotionally at least.

But when we started dating...all of a sudden it was like - holy shit. And the problem is, we don't balance. Maybe if he had estrogen and I had testosterone, maybe we could somewhat balance and complement one another in fighting style. But no. We're both males, so our basic instinct when we start fighting is to bruise whatever the fuck we can get at, ego and mental health included. I'm not saying females don't do that. Having known Wendy most of my life, I'm practically obligated to warn you that females _do_ do that. The problem is, two guys fighting usually isn't a big deal. And so when it is a big deal, like when you break up because of it. You have no idea what to do.

Or, at least that's what I like to think. It could be argued that we're both just retarded and don't know how to handle a relationship. In fact, it has been argued.

And yet, not even two days later, we were fine. Oh sure, we weren't cutesy and kitschy any more, believe you me, we saw that that was not going to work, we couldn't function that way. But the fact is, no matter how much we break up, we will always somehow end up back together. And no matter how much we fight, we still resolve the issues between each other eventually, or, if the situation calls for it, not at all. Whatever the case, we do it mutually and we're okay with that. It's like a bad romantic comedy starring that girl from Sex and the City and one of the guys from Friends, only we're not really on par with their good-looks, and we're not getting paid for all this. And you know? It's not so bad, most days.

So, yeah, maybe these last two days have been full of us bitching, like Stan said. Well, that's fine, we'll get through it, we always do. What I'm not sure we'll get through is when I open my door not a week later and find myself bombarded by several reporters. Phone calls from everywhere, local papers to national ones to my boss and the police. All of them wanting to know the same thing. Could they have a word with me? Because rumor had it, I had something to do with all these weird going-ons at the U of C Boulder campus, and they'd like an explanation.

Just when you think things are starting to get better, huh?

**A/N**: Next chapter's the last. Somehow I managed to fit everything into this story that had to be fit in, it's kind of a miracle. All the chapters are pretty much the same length and in the end you'll be looking at a word count of around 33K, give or take. Quite frankly, that's a first for me, and I am nerdily happy about that.  
For a tidbit of info about this story, we'll go to the bored side of my personality. Right, well, Kyle in this story, I kid you not, is me. Like, this Kyle is honestly how I see Kyle, completely. And it's scary because I realized he's a hell of a lot like me and he's a total bitch. Which means I'm a bitch too. But Jesus Christ, when somebody's hair touches my desk I just get the urge to shank them! I really, just really do. So mental note, don't ever do that to me, got it? Alright.  
As always, I love to hear from you guys, what you think and all, so leave a review, let me know what you like and what you don't and I'll see y'all next week.  
Until next time, tweekers.


	3. Part III

**Things My Boyfriend and I Have Argued About**

**A/N**: Well, I suppose this just goes to show that planning ahead is an utter waste of time. Really and honestly this being late is brought to you by me failing grade eleven (in all probability) and my mother's racist boyfriend. Bah, whatever, it's only a day late, but I did want to post it on Matt and Kyle's birthday, sigh.  
The quote for this chapter isn't from the book, because by this point I'd had to return the book to the library (so getting it out again in a few months so it'll seem fresh and witty). It's actually from the original website, which you can get to by just typing in Mil's full name and adding a dot com at the end, simple as that. Really, it's as funny as bash, and that's bash dot org for you retards who aren't up to date on geeky humor.  
**Dedication**: For eksley05, the superbestfriend. Remember: One day we will have Matt and Trey in a basement and they'll totally fall in love with us. We're just that charming.  
**Warnings**: If you're 13 plus, enjoy, if you're 12 or younger, don't let your parents see, eh?  
**Pairing(s)**: Kyle/His Job, Stan/His Emotions and Them/Each Other.  
**Disclaimer**: I'm going to begin digging my way into Kyle's bedroom right...now.

**Part III**: In The End  
**"**What on earth...I mean, Sweden's famous for three things: herrings, suicide and pornography. What do you expect me to buy for you, exactly?**"**  
--**Mil Millington**

It would be a lie to say that the time between when Stan and I got home from my parents' house and the following Monday when the entire media world wanted to hear what I had to say passed without incident. It would be the truth, of course, to say that nothing extremely good or bad happened, though. For the most part I was just constantly reminded of a few things:

1. TSR has or had deep-seated emotional problems. I say 'had' just because on Thursday a rumor was sweeping campus that he had been caught in a Kansas gas station and gunned down by the FBI. The fact is, after going through most of the drawers of his filing cabinets, Christophe and I were unable to determine what the hell we were supposed to do and, oddly enough, we had decided TSR was a kleptomaniac, because half the shit in the drawers was not his. More accurately, half of it belonged to my boss's pretty blonde secretary upon further investigation.

2. Christophe is suspicious as fuck. I knew that from the start - what are the odds of him, of all people, being the member of the _Unione_ that I end up working with? I was ready to write it off as something gay and lame, like destiny, but more and more it had just been seeming...contrived. Part of it was because of his answer when I asked, "So why's it taken you this long to actually become a member? Is it because you have to be a certain age or something?"

He responded by saying, "Et's, ah, a long process, really long, zey 'ave to test you and all zat. Yeah, long process. Zat's what et iz." Like I said: susp_iiiii_cious.

3. Cartman is an insufferable asshole/douche bag/closet case. Not that anyone didn't know that, but I'm reminded of it a lot. I suppose some people aren't aware of this fact, at least not these days, nothing he's done has been on the news, not since all those pyromania incidents in seventh grade. A good way to illustrate this is to go back to the time we went to Las Vegas a few years back. You really don't know how annoying it is to be in a car with Cartman for two days straight. Give him a fucking tape recorder and you're essentially an accomplice to your own murder. Just listen:

"Day one, a little after eleven in the morning. There's a lot of tension in the air. That...no, it's tension. It could be fear, seeing as Kyle's driving, I know I'm afraid for my life. Whoa, Jesus, dude. It should be known that throwing things in confined spaces, such as cars, is not advised. Just something to keep in mind. Kenny is texting his boyfriend. Oh, sorry, Butters. Only we all know it's the same thing, so.

"Day one, half past ten at night. Kenny is either asleep or dead, but it won't matter in the morning. If he is dead I would guess he died from asphyxiation due to the hot air that both Jewboy and his boyfriend have been exuding since their daily fight. Today it was about where we were going to eat dinner, followed up with a small tiff about whether or not to stay somewhere for the night. When will Kyle realize we should just drop Stan and Kenny off on the side of the road and get married in Vegas? Just kidding, I hate you Kyle.

"Day two, almost one in the afternoon. It turns out that Kenny wasn't dead last night but, as I prophesied, it was pretty much the same thing as when he dies. No one noticed or bothered to wake him up. He just got done yelling at us because he missed all of his beloved's text messages. Stan seems to have been contemplating killing his boyfriend for the past ten minutes. Kyle, on the other hand seems to have been contemplating killing all of us for the past ten minutes. I'm happy to see he's ready to join the cause, although it will mean suicide on his part."

4. Kenny is so odd. So...spontaneous. So...so...just what the fuck inducing. I mean, he's done weird things before, but I walk in to have lunch with him and Wendy on Wednesday and...and they're sitting there with Butters Stotch. I haven't even seen Butters since eighth grade when his parents switched him over to the Catholic school in Fairplay. I knew Kenny still talked to him and all, I never questioned that, he's free to talk to who he wants to. The thing is, Kenny figures if Butters dresses up like a girl again, like he did back in fourth grade, he can totally pass him off as his girlfriend from Canada.

And that's weird, but what's weirder is that Butters is totally okay with the idea.

What the fuck?

5. My family is a lot of things and while they happily aren't telepathic, they might as well be, since they've somehow managed to figure out that what I said at dinner wasn't just offhand sarcasm. My mom called on Friday, telling me how she was just worried sick about me, asking if I thought this serial killer fellow, this THK, was he going to come back to the university and murder everyone? Because if I did, it would be in my best interest to wear colors that blended in with the decor of the Learning Center, so I could hide from him easier.

And I repeat: what the fuck?

6. Everyone in the known universe, meaning Craig's universe, meaning him and Tweek, has made it their mission in life to make my life a living hell. They are succeeding, always will be succeeding, never won't be succeeding, etc. et. al. I don't want to implicate myself in murder, but well. If Craig says one more thing about how me getting a haircut could very well improve my love life or it Tweek, coerced by his boyfriend no doubt, mentions the possibility of kids, well, there may very well be a double homicide case for the police to solve.

Somehow, despite relaying this to them multiple times, the only results are Tweek freaking out, getting easily comforted by Craig - the only person in the known universe able to manage that feat - and then myself being told that Craig knows someone that could totally kill me with a shovel. Right, I'd like to see him try. Fucking douche bag with his empty threats.

I've also been viciously reminded of something about Wendy, but we'll get to that soon enough. Now that you've seen my last days of personal freedom in a nutshell, well, let's see them end.

**xxx**

I fall out of bed gracefully and, for a moment, just lay there in the ground, amidst pop cans and dirty clothing, thinking about my life. After that dramatic time is over I get up, give Stan his warranted glare for the morning - fucker sleeps through everything and anything when he wants to - and head to deal with what woke me up. I grab my cell phone on the way to the door and look at it expecting maybe a missed call and a text or two. Instead...instead I think that maybe my number got mixed up with someone who has a social life. My phone proclaims:

28 Missed Calls, 49 Text Messages.

It occurs to me that not only is there someone knocking on our apartment door, there seems to be someone talking, and not in the 'open up right now or I'll torch the place' kind of way, I mean in the way that a news reporter might talk to a camera, with no one talking back. That's...certainly odd. And yet I'm tired and pissed off that I'm awake so early on a day when I don't have to go into work, classes later sure, but this is a sacred day off, this is not a day where I was to wake up before noon.

So I'm just a little bit alarmed when I open up my door, groggy and bitchy, and find - how about that - a smiling woman I know as a news reporter from Channel 9 accompanied by, what else, a camera and the man behind it. "Hello," she says, like it's not six in the morning, "I'm from Channel 9, would you mind answering a few questions?"

"About...what?" I manage to mumble through my confusion and exhaustion.

She cocks her head to the side and lets out a tiny giggle that she possibly means to be comforting. I wince. "I think you know what I want to talk about, Mr. Broflovski," she says, her smile expanding to make her eyes into near slits. "And, truth be told, we," she says, nodding to the camera man, "would be much pleased to have the story before, excuse my language, those Channel 4 bastards get to you. They're vicious, not like us at all."

"Oh," I say, staring at her. She somehow manages to make her smile even broader. "Um, no thanks." It takes plenty of effort on my part to slam the door as she screams that I'm violating the people's rights to know what in the fuck is going on. I'm mildly scared that she's going to sneak into the apartment through the windows to claw me to death with her French manicure nails, so I lock every entryway I can and then make my way back into the bedroom.

Stan's still fast asleep. I kick him off the bed and drift off while he grumbles something about a good dream involving Brad Pitt. He better fucking mean that Brad Pitt was beating him up Fight Club style. And if he doesn't, he's going to wish he does.

**xxx**

When I finally wake up it's five minutes after noon and I am happy because of it. Stan is in the living room, watching a soap opera. You might think, ah, because it's a Monday afternoon, not much else on, right? Ha, wrong. Stan won't say it, of course, I doubt he even admits it to himself. But he loves those shows, he mopes around when his favorite characters die and gets energized when it turns out they're alive again. So naturally he makes an effort to look bored when I walk out of the bedroom after getting ready, but he's not fooling anyone, he loves that cheesy drama, the first step is admitting it to himself.

"Well, I'm going to class," I say, distinctly, with a little cough. "If, by any chance, any reporters come by or if someone calls you and asks you about me, just say I'm..."

"In class?" he asks, not looking away from the television.

"Dead," I decide. "Just tell them I'm dead. That I've died in a freak accident and no one can ever reach me ever again, not even by séance."

"Will do," he confirms. He, of course, probably does not really realize what he's just agreed to do. But he will think of it once I've left and do a double take far too late.

"Oh, also," I add, "you should vacuum today. Just to - "

"I refuse to vacuum," he says, vehemently, turning to glare at me. "Honestly, I'm not going to do everything you tell me to. If you want someone to vacuum, you do it yourself." And I'm sure you thought he just wasn't listening to me. Nah. Telling people I'm dead? That's probably fun for him, doesn't take much thought. But vacuuming? How dare I even suggest he do such a menial task.

"Well," I reply, sweetly, smiling, "how about I tell you that you will vacuum, or else I'll call up your mom and tell her that we really ought to go over there for dinner sometime. You know, like a certain someone did to me two weeks ago just because I spelt their name wrong on their taxes. Their taxes, the taxes that I did for them, need I remind...them."

"You've known me since preschool," he hisses. "How can you not know how to spell my last name? Look at your last name for fuck's sake, if you can remember how to spell that, how can you not remember how to spell my last name? It's practically a common English word!"

"I'm not arguing about this, I'm not," I say, more to myself than to him. "You are going to vacuum. I am going to come home and you are going to have vacuumed and, yes, you might miss out on who Chandler is dating on your show, but oh well. The apartment will be clean."

"Chandler is from _Friends_, Kyle," he says, like that's the most serious, most important thing for him to say right now.

"Vacuum," I reply and, with that heartfelt conversation over, I leave.

**xxx**

"Do you ever wish," I ask Wendy in a hushed tone, "that you could go somewhere far, far, far away from everyone else in the entire world and just stay there for a few weeks? Not forever, just a few weeks. And then you could come back and see if things were better and if not..."

"You could then go back and stay there forever, getting away from things like this once and for all," Wendy completes my sentence without even looking at me. "So many times Kyle, so many times. You're forgetting that I've had most of the same experiences as you. We've both beaten up Cartman. We've both dated Stan. We both grew up in South Park. Believe me when I say: I know what you mean."

"Why don't you just move away then?" I squint my eyes at the same thing she's looking at. "I mean, Jesus, Wendy, your parents give you more than enough money. You wouldn't even make as much if you were a prostitute. And they get paid really damn well."

"You know, my dad told me once that that's the exact reason they pay for all my stuff," she tells me, meeting my eyes for a minute and nodding. "Yep. His exact words were, I believe, 'we had a conversation about how much you could make in a month and added a hundred dollars to it, all so you wouldn't be tempted.'" She pauses. "Should I be offended that they thought I would only make seven hundred a month? Because that's what they thought if he was telling the truth. Unless he was counting the bills, I didn't even think of the bills, but those vary month to month, so how could they have guessed at that?"

"I think you should just be happy they give you money in the first place," I offer, amicably.

"I guess I should," she says, slowly, then she looks across the table, "but I just can't when they're doing...that. I just can't be happy about anything at all."

We both watch as Kenny and Butters figure out the exact past of their 'relationship.' So far, as it turns, Kenny's Canadian girlfriend dabbles in the occult, but nothing too serious or crazy, like talking to dead people. She was using tarot cards the predicted she would meet her true love in Colorado, and being a romantic she came here and met Kenny who, in a twist of fate, fell over her suitcase full of cleaning products and almost died. It's a romantic story if I've ever heard of one, now they're just trying to figure out a name.

"Why won't Marjorine work?" I had asked them at one point. They looked at me like I was deeply disturbed.

"Because," Kenny had replied, "that's no fun. That's the best we could do in fourth grade, Kyle. I think we can do better now."

So far they've thought of Kelsey, because it sounds 'like a really Canadian-ish name.' I don't really say anything to them after that; it seems there's absolutely no reasoning with them. I do, however, ask myself a few times, why I decided to actually meet them for lunch before class instead of making the smart decision of just going somewhere far, far away, as I was discussing with Wendy.

Don't get me wrong, though, as much as I feel - well, uneasy at best, about this whole thing, I'm trying to be okay with it. Which means I've talked to Butters once and also that I'm really, really scared to again. And I know what people are thinking, 'But, Kyle, you're the epitome of manliness, and Butters – people call him _Butters_, so if you're scared to talk to him what hope is there for the human race, you handsome, wonderful, amazing male, whom every man should base their hopes and dreams on.' There should probably be a question mark in there somewhere, but you get my point.

Wendy has to leave because class her class is starting in an hour and she doesn't want to lose nerd points for only being half an hour early. I am not a nerd - well, mostly - so I am physically unable to head to class until I'm going to be five minutes late. This is awkward enough, but then Kenny goes to the bathroom and I'm left sitting with Butters in complete silence for a good minute.

"So," I finally say, "how have, um, you been?"

"I've been alright," he replies with a shrug. You know what's really scary about him now? He sounds fucking normal. I mean, when we were kids he kind of had stuttering problems and all that, like an accent. That's what I always thought, at least, but his next sentence makes me reconsider. "My parents got divorced and all, so I told my dad I wasn't taking his shit any more. Normal stuff." Yeah, maybe the reason Butters was like that as a kid was because we made him that way. "By the way, you haven't seen Cartman recently, have you?"

"Sadly," I mutter under my breath. "He's going to U of C, actually, somehow. I don't know how - wait, did you just call him Cartman?"

"I'm not going to validate him by calling him by his first name," he explains, calmly. No, wait - seriously. No some emotion I've never ever seen, nor expected to see on him. Oh, fuck. He says it _confidently_.

"Um, good for you," I manage to mumble after a few seconds. "But, uh, yeah. He has classes on Mondays and Wednesdays, every other Friday. Which I only know because Clyde and Token hacked into the grading system to see if he was failing all of his classes or not. And surprisingly, he's not." I don't mention the fact that Clyde totally made fifteen bucks off of me and Token because he was the only one who said he would be passing at least two of his classes. Token said he was failing all of them. I bet it was all a government ruse and Cartman only existed to make my childhood hell.

"That's not surprising," Butters says, narrowing his eyes. "He's smart, he just usually - or at least, he used to usually only use his intelligence for stupid things."

"Butters he's studying European History just because he knows, at some point, they will be getting a lecture about Nazi Germany," I inform him. "Yes, he's smart, but he's a sociopath who gets off on anti-semetic propaganda. There's a fine line between a normal smart person and...and a...Cartman. He's in a category all his own."

Butters seems to consider this, then shrugs. "It doesn't matter anyway, I'm going to kill him when I see him. I feel totally justified in my plans to do so."

I believe I have just suffered my fourth heart attack by the time Kenny comes back to the table and asks Butters if he's ready to go. Before they leave, though, he looks back at me and raises his eyebrows, grinning. I smile back weakly. Yeah. Yeah, I guess I can see why Kenny wants Butters as his Canadian girlfriend.

For a few minutes I just sit there in silence until I realize: shit, I need to tell Cartman.

**xxx**

It is no secret that I hate Cartman. It is no secret that, at times, I have prayed to God - though I don't even think there is one - that he may be struck dead in some haphazard accident or find himself stranded in Israel, though I doubt he would see the irony in that. It is really, honestly, no secret that if I had my way Cartman would probably still be in Somalia right now. You get my point.

Now what is a secret is that I like talking to Cartman. Sometimes. On occasion. And not for more than a few minutes. Because, for all of the growing up he's never done...well, he's done some. He's tolerable at least, if you take him in doses of a few minutes at a time. I'm pretty much deaf to all his insults after all these years and, really, there are some things that no one else seems to comprehend but Cartman. In another, far off - far, _far_ off - distant, paradoxical world where up is down, we might have been friends.

And so, with that in mind, know that I am not going to tell Cartman that Butters wants to kill him. If Butters can manage it, more power to him. But it's plain to me that only Cartman will get how weird this whole confident Butters thing is. Kenny's obviously enjoying it. Wendy's a girl so she'll find some stupid excuse, like he got a girlfriend, to justify it. Stan is Stan so he'll find some stupid excuse, like he got a girlfriend, to justify it. Craig might get it, but he'll run off and try to find out what's happening and just make things weird and awkward for everyone but him. Tweek would either faint on the spot or, worse yet, he'd be inspired and we'd somehow end up with a normal Tweek, which is just _wrong_.

Cartman has to get it, I'll murder him myself if he doesn't.

I manage to get past the ring of reporters that seem to be surrounding the entire university campus. The scary part is, I have the feeling they're looking for me. Especially since everyone glares at me when I get into the Learning Center. It's not exactly my best entrance ever, either, since I trip over a chair while distracted by the raw animosity emanating from everyone in a ten foot radius. Luckily enough Clyde pulls me out of the lion's den and into the room where he and Token work out of.

"Dude," he says, slowly stepping away from me. "Dude, um. Why are you here?" Normally Clyde either looks indifferent, pissed or ready to cry. At the moment he looks worried, or maybe apprehensive. It's nerve-wracking; he's not _allowed_ a third emotion.

"What this idiot is trying to say," says Token from across the room, "is why are you here when you should be hiding out in Brazil? You're pretty much the most hated man in Boulder at the moment. Once all the major news shows come on tonight, not even the most liberal of liberals will want anything to do with you."

I say, "But...but..._why_?" in a voice that is, decidedly, not a whine.

"Why?" Clyde hisses in a strained voice. "Why? Because the funding for the university is falling out. Because the school might have to close. Because - because it's all your fault!"

"Someone found out about everything, dude," Token says in a low voice. "I mean, _everything_. Somehow it's all out. How the university has ties to the _Unione Corse_ and the drug trade. The fact that, yeah, that totally was an Indian burial site the contractors dug up and disregarded. Not to mention that they caught TSR and, um, for whatever reason he says you're the one to blame. Turns out he was wanted for planning murder and drug charges. Three guesses as to who he was planning to murder and the first two don't count."

"You," Clyde mouths at my utter confusion.

"Me?" I whimper in a pitch dogs in Japan can probably hear.

"TSR...he, well he," Token says, struggling with how to explain the whole thing. "He hates everyone. Ever. But you, for whatever reason, struck something in him. He deplores you. I think he once called you the whiniest bitch to ever walk the planet." I wouldn't bet on it, but I have the distinct feeling that, in some way, Token is actually enjoying telling me this.

"But he never - I don't get why though, why he would want to kill me," I tell them, eyes wide. "I didn't think TSR liked me, he doesn't like anyone except for maybe that blonde secretary and his kids. But I didn't think he hated me. Not enough to kill me. I don't think I ever really did anything to him. Oh my God. Oh my God, _wait_, I spilt coffee in his office the first day here."

"Really he was planning on taking most of us out," Clyde explains to me in a soft voice. "It's just that, I guess, in his plan he specifically stated you. Like you were enemy number one or something. And let's face it, Kyle, we're talking about Terry Scott Russell, he didn't need to have anything all that personal against you. Chances are you were just the unlucky son of a bitch who did something wrong just as he was about to snap."

"That's why I was always nice to him," Token adds, "just in case this sort of thing actually happened. I hear he specifically said he wouldn't shoot us techies. Good man, that TSR."

"How do you know all this shit?" I moan, weighted down by it all.

"It's on the news, dude," Clyde says, sounding apologetic. "That's why we thought you weren't going to show up today. They're out to talk to you. The police will probably be showing up soon. Whoever informed them - they're saying it was one of the French mafia guys - somehow knew about everything. And TSR is vouching that you're behind it all. I don't want to believe it, but as far as they're reporting, Kyle, you are in some serious shit."

"He's telling the truth," Token confirms when I look at him. "It's really best that you get out of here, go home and maybe stay there for a few years until this all blows over. Whoever this _Unione Corse_ guy is, he'll be using this to ensure he isn't put in jail for his involvement. And TSR is probably doing the same thing, although you serving time will be a bonus for him no doubt."

"But I didn't even do anything!" I cry, pulling at my hair. "The contractor said TSR authorized the whole thing, that I wasn't going to be involved no matter what. And my boss told me TSR used to work with the French mafia so I have to - I have to _kill_ him. I have to fucking _murder_ Christophe." Clyde and Token are looking at me like I'm crazy. "The _Unione Corse _guy I was working with - he's the only one who could have done all this."

"Christophe," Clyde says, "why does that sound so familiar?" For a second I think they somehow remember the war, but then Token makes an odd connection.

"The guy at the coffee shop," he says, suddenly. "The one Craig and Tweek go to every morning. The guy that works there, his name is Christophe. Craig's on pretty good terms with him, says Tweek's scared to death of him though. You don't think it's the same guy, do you?"

I try to picture Christophe working in a coffee shop. "He has the whole condescending douche bag attitude down," I concede, "but, well, just, God no."

"Look," Clyde says, "like I told you, I believe you. Now," he adds after I glare at him. "What I'm saying is...is...Token tell him what I'm saying."

"He's saying," Token sighs, "that you seriously need to get out of here. Like, _now_. No killing of French people. Nothing like that, just go home and stay there. Unless the police come. Then you should probably, really leave."

"Okay," I say, going to leave the room, "right after I find Cartman." I decide to ignore them yelling after me.

I, oddly enough, find Cartman in my office. He nonchalantly greets me and I do the same.

"So I hear you're wanted for a multitude of crimes," he says, cheerfully. "I didn't think you were going to show up, so I took the liberty of using one of the computers in here. I knew you wouldn't mind." I shrug and make a non-committal noise without thinking much, sitting down in the chair next to him. "Uh, Kyle? You're kind of supposed to bitch at me now," he says after a moment, sounding uncomfortable.

"And, see, here's the thing," I say, slowly, "I would be. By all accounts, I should be. But right now all my hate is concentrated on killing a French guy and mostly I'm just worried about whether or not I'll get caught for that. There was something I wanted to tell you but I have no idea what that was. I just had to get the fuck away from Clyde and Token."

"So you came to talk to me?" he asks, skeptically.

"It makes no sense to me either," I reply. "Except, oh yeah, guess who was with Kenny at lunch."

"Butters," Cartman says, simply. I manage to scoff before he continues, "I'm Kenny's friend too, Jewboy. I probably know more about what's going on that you do."

"I hate you so, so much," I say, indifferently to the wall.

"I know," he says with a sigh. "But if you go to jail things will be way too boring around here. So you should go home or something. Not hang out here, where everyone's waiting for you to show up to class. Because it's way more interesting to pick you up at the school you're royally screwing over than at home."

"You don't want to hang out with me?" I ask, feigning dejection. "I know you hate me and all, it's mutual, but we could sell heroin from the _Unione Corse_ together, check out the dead bodies at that burial site. Your definition of a good day."

"Uh, hey guys, having a good time?" Craig saunters - I kid you not - into the room, Tweek following him nervously.

"Awesome," Cartman replies, flatly.

"You know us, so much fun when we're together," I add in monotone. Then I remember, "Does a guy named Christophe work at the coffee shop you guys go to?"

"Yeah," Craig says, nodding. "He's so fucking cool dude. He's ace at lying. Totally had Tweek believing he'd murder him if he didn't finish his third cup of coffee. Said it was against his religious principals. Naturally I threatened to return the favor, but he was totally lying straight-faced the entire time. Wasn't he, Tweek?"

"Yeah," Tweek says with a small smile. "Sometimes he almost m-makes me have a heart attack." There's silence. "But he's really funny," he adds, quickly, twitching under all our stares.

"He wouldn't be...he wouldn't be really tall and brunet and French, by any chance," I say, tentatively, "would he?"

"I would." Christophe is standing in the doorway, much like he was just a week ago. He laughs weakly. "I guess, ah. Hmm. I guess I saw zis coming in ze near future." Craig is looking between us, confused as hell, totally ready to say something he thinks is witty but that no one else wants to hear in an loud voice. He's not unlike Dane Cook in that respect.

"Oh, well, that's good," I say, "that's very good, Christophe. In fact, that is awesome. Because you must have known that you were going to have to explain the fuck out of this situation." He opens his mouth to say something. "Ha, you wish. Craig get the fuck out. That means you too, Tweek. Cartman, feel free to stay if you want the cops to be searching for your body parts for the better part of the next month."

It's probably not even a second later that I'm alone with Christophe. I must be more pissed off than I know.

"Explain," I command him. Yes, command. In another life I see myself ruling a foreign country with an iron fist. Russia, I think. Very possibly as Peter the Great. Not that I've thought about it before or anything. It's just an educated guess formulated from a few sleepless nights when I was really bored and had some hours to kill.

"Ze zing iz," he says, reaching back towards the door handle, for comfort, I suppose, "all of zis iz my fault. Not all of et, let me rephrase. I am not a member of ze _Unione Corse_ and I am never going to be."

"Yes, I figured that one out on my own. It seemed rather obvious, unless they're in the habit of working in coffee shops part-time," I say drily. "Don't tell me things I already know, got it?"

He nods, quickly and looks around nervously, before relaxing against the door slightly. "I was supposed to get a job 'ere. Zat's why I was looking for Terry, zey told me to come 'ere and talk to 'im about getting a job."

"There aren't any openings though," I say, sharply. "You aren't even a student here."

"Eh, well, actually," he says to the ground.

"Ah, you are," I say, closing my eyes for a moment. "I didn't even - I just assumed. _Fuck_."

"So mostly zis could be considered _your_ - " I glare at him. "Like I said, all of zis, et's my fault. I just - I zought et would be fun, you know?" He laughs for a second time, which means I now have the right, in my opinion, to punch him twice. "I guess...you do not know. Et's just, I figured I would tell you at ze end of ze first day."

"Only you didn't," I say, "and so it makes me wonder - a few things actually. First off, why? Second off, holy fucking shit, why? And third, why do you know so much about the French mafia - or was all of that just made up? And finally, finally, Christophe, because I really doubt it was you now, why the fuck is there an actual member of the _Unione Corse_ out there who knows everything about what's going on here?"

"Ah, well," Christophe murmurs, looking up at the ceiling, "let's see. Why, I do not know. 'oly fucking sheet why, when you put et zat way...I suppose because et was fun. I do not like et 'ere, I 'ave lived 'ere most of my life. I liked being around you, zat's why. I can answer your last two questions quite easily. I 'ave a bruzzer, and 'e, unlike moi, iz a member of ze _Unione Corse_."

"Oh right, that totally explains why he's out telling everyone everything," I hiss. "Tell me, Christophe. Is it hereditary? You two being douche bags? Are your parents douche bags too? Does it go back generations? Because if it does I might be able to understand this. Then it wouldn't all be your fault. You wouldn't be a douche bag by choice."

"We," he begins, then pauses and thinks for a moment. "_I_ am not a douche bag. My bruzzer, I can see why you would zink of 'im as such. Jordy just 'as a bit of a need for attention. Et's, really, ze reason 'e joined ze _Unione_ in ze first place. Et's a psychological need as ze first child, to prove 'imself."

"You learned that yesterday in your Psych class, didn't you?" I ask with a sign.

"Non," he replies, glaring at me. "I learned et last week."

"God, they wouldn't even let you in the fucking mafia if you wanted to join," I mutter. "Okay, let me get this straight. You come here, looking for TSR to give you a job." He nods. "I am going to assume TSR wanted to give you my job. As it turns he hated me and wanted to kill me. Regardless, you come here and I, having no reason to think otherwise make the assumption - because my boss had just told me he was going to send in someone from the _Unione Corse_ - that it was you. However, you, being...you, end up lying to me and convincing me that you're the guy I'm supposed to be talking to. And I'm going out a limb here, but the person I was supposed to be talking to was your brother."

"I believe you people say somezing stupid like 'Bingo?'" he says with a smile.

"Only when we're revealing stupid plot points," I agree. "So, then, your brother can't be happy with this."

Christophe holds up a hand. "If I may," he says, "no, 'e was not at first. But zen I told 'im zat if 'e told me what I should be telling you, zen I would tell 'im what I found out was going on around 'ere. Admittedly, I kind of wondered why 'e wanted to know. And it quickly became obvious zat 'e wanted to know so zat 'e could tell people 'oo would pay 'im for ze information...and put 'im on the television. It was actually sort of fun to see 'im on ze news, telling zem - okay, I will shut up now, oui?"

"If you have any sense of self-preservation, you will," I tell him through a forced smile. "Goddammit. Why couldn't you have just asked me to hang out or something? Your brother is making my life suck far more than usual. And so, by default, I blame you. I blame you and my boss and that stupid fucking contractor. And most of all TSR. Fuck, I fucking hate him." I end my tirade gracefully, kicking at one of the computer modems and tripping backwards. The screen goes black instantly and I groan, "Just what I needed." I sit down in one of the computer chairs, just to calm down. Also partly because I can hear Stan in my head, he would be telling me to do this to calm down, so I listen to him.

Stress is making me go insane.

"Christophe?" I voice, quietly. "Can you talk about something I don't give a fuck about for a minute? To get my mind of this shit, you know. Something stupid. Like what you're going to the university for."

Christophe makes a sort of indignant...squawking noise. I choose to ignore it. After a few seconds he sighs dramatically and sits down in the chair next to me. "Cardiology," he mumbles. "Well, in all truz, eventually I want to be a surgeon, and, so, really, I 'ave to take every medical class ever. Like psych. But definitely cardiology."

"Really?" I ask, somewhat interested, if only because it's something other than my imminent doom to think about.

"Et's a possibility," he says with a shrug. "But as Craig 'as said countless times, one never really knows wiz moi. Now, what about you?"

"Oh man, I should really get home," I say in answer, shooting out of my seat. Unfortunately Christophe stands up as well and I am reminded of my initial reaction to him. _Unione Corse_ or no, he still looks like he could kill me, easy. It's disconcerting, is what it is. "Undeclared," I finally manage to squeak out, losing all dignity in the process.

"Oh," Christophe says, sounding surprised. "I would have figured you - well, _you_..."

"Yes, me," I agree, grimacing. "Look, it's just - well, maybe not at this exact moment, but I'm really happy with my life right now. And if I declare a major I'm going to end up with a degree soon. I almost thought about going into law just because that would take a while, but I hate law and Cartman would make jokes about it until he died. I don't want a degree because then I'll get out of this hellhole and get a better job. Probably better than Stan's. And maybe we'll move somewhere else. And I'll never see anyone again. And then maybe Stan will get a classic case of resentment for me getting a new job, better than his, and making us move. And then he'll either break up with me or murder me, stuff me into a duffel bag - "

"Kyle?" Christophe says with a small cough. I blink and look at him. "I, um, I get et."

"But I wasn't done saying what Stan might do to me," I inform him, incredulous.

"Oui, but still, I get et," he replies, not meeting my eyes. "I zink, 'onestly, et would be best for you to get 'ome. And since zere are reporters everywhere, ah, et might do you some good to leave zrough one of ze back entrances, oui?"

Over-loaded with information and worry, I reply, "Oui," without even really knowing why.

**xxx**

I figure now would be a good point to address one thing before we get into the final throes of my story. My cell phone has been on silent since I went to bed last night. Therefore, I am pointedly ignoring my nearly one hundred missed calls at this point. A few hours later, while in the car with Stan driving here, I will check to see who has the audacity, the nerve, the balls, if you will, to call me that many times.

As it will turn out, my mother does.

Oh, sure, in retrospect, that much is obvious. And, yes, there are a few calls from Wendy in there. One from my boss, but he apparently knew what was good for him and didn't call again. But you have to understand, at this point, when I'm leaving the university, I am not thinking about my family. Which just goes against the morals that I'm supposed to hold as a human being. But I'm an American first, before I'm a human being, dammit, and that means the before my family comes: me, my significant other and material goods of any kind. Very possibly monetary resources as well.

Basically, family is the last thing on my mind and the next to last thing is who's calling my cell phone. So if anyone asks: Why didn't you call your mom? Or: But isn't your dad a lawyer, Kyle? They will find themselves wishing they hadn't. Self-preservation, folks, remember, it's what keeps you and Christophe from _really_ pissing me off.

**xxx**

When I get home it looks as if Stan has not moved from the spot he was when I left. Most people would think that he might have gotten up to eat. But I know better, Stan very possibly could have stayed there the entire time just to spite me. He cares about me like that.

"Did you vacuum?" I ask, in the most even tone I can manage.

"Does it look like I did?" he replies. I look around while he smiles calmly at me.

"Did you vacuum?" I repeat.

"Does it look like I did?" he replies once more. "Look, we can do this all day, or you can admit something. You can admit that you have no idea whether I've vacuumed or not, which of course means, the apartment was not so dirty as that you had to make me vacuum and either way it makes no difference. If I did vacuum, then, well, I did. But the fact is, you can't tell if I did or not. Admit it."

You may at this point be wondering if my apartment is a sort of alternate reality. If perhaps in this reality my biggest problem is whether or not Stan vacuumed. You may be saying, Kyle this is getting old, break up with the asshole, go back to being best friends with him and then sort your shit the fuck out. Well, I will then ask you to kindly shut up and explain something to you.

First off, we live in apartment 304. Henry Townshend lives in 302 and we are very assured that his is the only alternate reality apartment in the building. That's another story though, but I am hoping he'll finally get out of there today or tomorrow so that maybe the news can focus on whatever weird story he's sure to have. It would at least get them away from the U of C Catastrophe, as the geniuses at Fox News have been calling it.

Second, I'm arguing with Stan about vacuuming because maybe, just maybe, I don't want to think about what we should really be discussing. That and I did tell him to vacuum, so he better have fucking done it if he knows what's good for him.

"Stan," I say - and if he says that I whined it desperately he's a vicious liar - grabbing the remote and turning the television off, "you haven't by chance watched the news in the past few hours, have you?" He looks at me like I've just asked if he's set the apartment on fire while I was gone - meaning his basic message is 'uh, no, and that should be obvious.' I groan inwardly, at least if he had seen the news I wouldn't have to explain the state of affairs to him. "Okay, well, then I guess I'll have to tell you why the police are going to be showing up sometime soon."

Stan sighs heavily and then turns to look at me where I'm standing behind the couch. Then he averts his eyes and says to the lava lamp, "Kyle, you know, I don't think I want to know. I think that, over the years I have come to terms with something. I wouldn't say trouble follows you. Not so much as it stalks you with the fervor of an obsessed fangirl, drags you away from time to time and fucks you up thoroughly until it leaves you alone for a week or so before coming after you again. And so, whatever's going on right now, I don't want to know. Because I know it's not your fault, and whoever's fault it is, well, I'll help you hide the bodies if you want me to, especially if it's Cartman."

"Stan," I say with a sharp laugh, "Cartman could not pull this off in his wildest dreams."

He winces, "That bad, huh?" I nod. "Alright, look, you said something about the police?" he asks. Only I don't hear the last word very well, because someone chooses that moment to knock at the door. I nearly duck and cover. It sounds as if they chose that moment to use a machine gun on our door, really. I must look a lot paler than usual because Stan says, "Well, I'm going to take a wild guess, but that sounds like the sort of knock a self-righteous policeman would use. I'll be right back."

Perhaps it is because Stan has dealt with the police before. Maybe it's because he grew up with his dad who, all respect to Mr. Marsh, is about as smart as a member of the police force. I would wager, though, that it's the fact that, unlike all my other friends, Stan has common sense and uses it to rationalize things. I do too. Sometimes. When I'm not angry about something. Regardless, Stan manages to coerce the two policemen at the door into letting him drive me down to the station. I think they even talk a little bit about how the Broncos are doing.

"So," he says once the door is closed, "You're wanted for aiding the French mafia, possible drug trafficking, the defamation of an Indian burial site, or at least giving the orders to do so, and they want to know if you know the whereabouts of your boss and the contractor who dug up the bodies."

I make an exasperated noise and throw myself on the couch deciding that I was wrong, the apartment is an alternate reality and I'm totally okay with never leaving it - ever. Stan sits next to me, not saying anything, waiting, because he knows full well I'll cave and say something first. "How do you put up with this shit?" I mutter, finally, into a pillow.

"I've been putting up with this shit since preschool," he says, simply. "Very rarely am I the perpetrator in these sorts of things. I won't deny that some things have been my fault, but for the most part it's been you or Cartman or Kenny who gets into these situations. I'm used to it. I won't say I'm happy with it, but, well, I sort of am."

I look at him sharply, "You're happy that every other month shit like this happens? You do realize that only a month ago Cartman was convinced that bombing the White House would end global warming and I forced you to drive me there to stop him, don't you?"

"I do," he agrees, slowly, "but here's the thing. If I really, really didn't want to have to deal with this crap, I wouldn't. But I don't mind it, so I do. Because in all honesty, Kyle, I would so much rather put up with all this fucked up, sitcom-esque bullshit that comes along with dating you, than have a normal, stable relationship. I can't even imagine how boring that would be."

"So you date me for the excitement," I say with a sniff.

"No, stupid," he replies, smiling at me, "I date you because I love you. And I put up with the - 'excitement,' really, is that what you want to call it - the, fine, the excitement because of that. I was thinking you would figure that out at some point, but I forgot you're Kyle Broflovski, who, as smart as he is, needs common sense spelled out for him every now and again."

"God, I was so wrong," I croak out. "You're nothing like Tom Cruise."

Stan shudders. "Damn straight, now come on," he stands up and puts his hand out for me to grab it, "I'm taking you to the police station, you're giving your statement and there's nothing you can do about it, because I did so vacuum, and so you owe me for that."

I grab onto his hand and let him pull me up. And if it takes us a few minutes longer to get out to the car than it should, well, that's that. But at least by that point I'm smiling like only Stan can make me do.

**xxx**

And really, that's pretty much it. I don't know where my boss is or where the contractor is. CNN says they're halfway to Albania by now. CNN probably knows more than I do. You have to see by now: none of this was really my fault. And if even a tiny, little bit was, or is, well then, I'm really sorry, but what was I supposed to do?

When, one day, I'm a guest on Ellen or Oprah or Jon Stewart, they'll ask me things like 'What was going on in your mind when this happened?' They'll probably want to know why I didn't do something, tell someone like the police or just quit and find a different job. But I'll say to them, 'What would you have done?' And maybe they'll be sure that they would have quit or run to the nearest police station. But as Stan says, you can take someone out of South Park, but you can't take the South Park out of them. I'm used to this sort of shit, I'm used to dealing with it, I'm not used to just backing down or even having the good option to do so. And maybe once I explain that, Maury or Jerry or Regis and Kelly will say, 'When you put it that way...'

Point is, that's what happened. Point is, today's my birthday and I didn't even realize it until someone said the date before they put a tape recorder in front of me and told me to spill. The point is, Stan's out there waiting for me and he has been for the past few hours so I really think I ought to be going. I have things to do. Among them, convincing everyone that I really, honestly, am not at fault here is pretty high on the list. I have to call my parents and tell them what's going on as well, before my mom chokes on her own stereotypical worry. Probably I'll quit my job in the Learning Center and look for a new one somewhere out of the way. Take a week or so off of school, if they haven't already expelled me without my knowledge. Those sorts of things.

I know a lot of this was just things my boyfriend and I have argued about, and I know, when this whole statement is presented in court and all that, no one's going to care about that shit. But, hey, fuck if I care. It's my story and I think I'm entitled to some personal liberties in the way that I tell it, considering I'm the only one who can really do so, after all.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go confront a certain Stanley Marsh about the fact that he never said happy birthday to me, the bastard. And after that?

Well, come on, by now you must know: I have no idea, but I sure as hell know I'm going to enjoy myself and that Stan will too.

**A/N**: I am sooooo well aware that Butters may, in fact, seem OOC in this fic. But, holy oh my god, I realized, dudes: Butters is so fucking awesome. Put him in therapy for a few years, have his parents divorced and not so focused on him, give him a chance to start fresh. Especially at a Catholic school, those places force you to be badass. Somehow, at like twenty-one, I could see Butters wanting to murder Cartman and feeling no remorse whatsoever about that fact. If you feel it's impossible, bitch and flame me in your review, because we all know fanfiction is super srs business. And if anyone takes this version of Butters from me, I will gut them.  
So let me know what you think at least now in the end? I'll appreciate it forever, far more than those annoying favorites and alerts without reviews. Whatever the case, thanks for reading as always and see you around.  
-tweekers


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